6025 


American  Dramatists  Series 


tfje 


fRaltolm  jfflorlep 


w 


I^^^^^H  ' 

^:.;,^W,y,-:'"'' ':  J    ^ 

'^-Mfc,;;---   ., 


;^^'^::" 

'^^/"ki 
joBBi 


^BHB 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Irving  Pichel 


American  Dramatists  Series 

TOLD    BY  THE 
GATE 

And  Other  One-Act  Plays 


BOSTON:    THE   GORHAM  PRESS 
TORONTO:  THE  COPP  CLARK  co.,  LIMITED 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  MALCOLM  MORLEY 


(All  rights  of  representation  reserved  by  the  author, 
from  whom  permission  must  be  obtained  for  the  per- 
formance of  any  one  of  these  pieces.) 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

PAGX 

TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 7 

THE  MASTERPIECE       27 

RECOLLECTIONS 47 

THE  COSHER 67 

BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST 85 

A  MOTOR  MISHAP IO1 


931553 


TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

A  love  cycle  in  one  act 
1914 


CHARACTERS 

ARTHUR 
LEONARD 
GERTRUDE 
ALICE 

SCENE:  A  picturesque  country  meadow.  Hedge 
set  across  the  stage  diagonally,  upper  R.  to  lower 
L.  A  large  swinging  wooden  gate  is  in  the  middle 
of  the  hedge.  A  path  runs  from  lower  entrance  R. 
up  stage,  meets  gate  and  extends  itself  beyond. 
Trees  and  foliage  in  the  background. 

PERIOD:  Early  Victorian.  Costumes,  simple  and 
picturesque. 


TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

(Arthur  discovered.  He  is  a  virile  youth  with 
brown  hair  and  a  restless  manner.  He  is  raising 
his  hat  to  some  one  off  R.) 

ARTHUR.     Farewell!      (Stands  looking  off  R.) 

(Enter  Gertrude  along  path  behind  gate.  Arthur 
turns  and  they  meet,  one  each  side  of  the  gate) 

ARTHUR.    Gertrude! 

GERTRUDE.    Arthur ! 

ARTHUR.    How  do  you  do? 

GERTRUDE.    Nicely,  I  thank  you.    And  you? 

ARTHUR.  Moderately  well.  I  have  been  wait- 
ing to  meet  you,  Gertrude.  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you. 

GERTRUDE.    Yes  ? 

ARTHUR.  You  will  think  me  presumptuous,  I 
fear. 

GERTRUDE.    Why  should  I? 

ARTHUR.  I  must  tell  you.  I  can  keep  silent  no 
longer.  Gertrude,  I  love  you. 

7 


8  TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

GERTRUDE.     Arthur,  you  are  so  impulsive. 

ARTHUR.  I  cannot  help  it.  I  have  looked  into 
your  eyes  and  they  have  bewitched  me. 

GERTRUDE.  That  sounds  as  if  you  were  calling 
me  a  witch. 

ARTHUR.     So  you  are — a  beautiful  witch. 

GERTRUDE.  But  I  thought  witches  were  old  and 
ugly  and  did  all  sorts  of  harm? 

ARTHUR.  They  cast  spells  and  you  have  cast  a 
spell  on  me. 

GERTRUDE.  I  was  not  aware  of  it.  I  must  re- 
move the  spell. 

ARTHUR.     You  cannot. 

GERTRUDE.  Oh,  but  if  I  am  a  witch,  I  can  re- 
move a  spell  of  my  own  making. 

ARTHUR.  I  want  to  remain  under  the  spell — 
always.  Gertrude,  tell  me,  does  my  love  mean  any- 
thing to  you? 

GERTRUDE.  Of  course.  Love  means  everything 
to  a  woman. 

ARTHUR.     You  can  return  my  affection? 
GERTRUDE.     I  don't  know. 
ARTHUR.     You  don't  know? 

GERTRUDE.  I  cannot  tell.  I  love  love,  I  want 
to  be  loved  and  I  want  to  be  in  love. 


TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

ARTHUR.    Then  I  may  hope  that — 


GERTRUDE.  Oh,  I  am  not  sure  whether  it  is  you 
I  want  to  love  me  or  whether  I  am  in  love  with 
you. 

ARTHUR.  It  should  be  so.  Am  I  not  in  love 
with  you  ? 

GERTRUDE.    You  say  so. 
ARTHUR.    I  mean  so. 

GERTRUDE.  It  requires  more  than  words  to  ex- 
press love's  meaning. 

ARTHUR.  Words  help  and  they  are  all  that  I 
can  make  use  of  now.  Give  me  other  weapons 
and  I'll  use  them  to  win  you. 

GERTRUDE.     Why  do  you  wish  to  win  me? 
ARTHUR.     Because  I  love  you. 
GERTRUDE.    Why  do  you  love  me? 
ARTHUR.     Because — because — I  cannot  tell. 

GERTRUDE.  And  I  cannot  tell  whether  I  love 
you. 

ARTHUR.     I  love  you. 

GERTRUDE.  Am  I  the  first  woman  you  have  ever 
loved  ? 

ARTHUR.    You  are  the  last. 
GERTRUDE.    And  the  others? 


io  TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

ARTHUR.    They  don't  count. 

GERTRUDE.     One  day  I  shall  rank  with  them. 

ARTHUR.  Never,  never — you  are  the  only  one 
to  me.  I  did  not  love  the  others  nearly  so  much 
as  I  love  you.  You  are  above  them  all.  My  affec- 
tion for  you  is  genuine  and  lasting. 

GERTRUDE.  Did  you  make  that  same  speech  to 
the  others? 

ARTHUR.    Er — not  exactly. 

GERTRUDE.    But  very  like. 

ARTHUR.     If  I  did,  I  did  not  mean  it. 

GERTRUDE.    Then  why  did  you  say  it? 

ARTHUR.     I  thought  I  meant  it. 

GERTRUDE.    As  you  think  you  mean  it  now. 

ARTHUR.    I  do  mean  it. 

GERTRUDE.  Arthur,  I  am  afraid  you  are  incon- 
stant. 

ARTHUR.  Inconstant,  never.  Besides  have  you 
never  flirted? 

GERTRUDE.     Flirtation  is  the  food  of  love. 

ARTHUR.  Then  flirt  with  me.  I  am  hungry 
for  love. 

GERTRUDE.  Don't  you  think  that  a  man  and 
a  maid  and  an  old  rustic  gate  are  the  first  ele- 
ments of  flirtation? 


TOLD  BY  THE  GATE  n 

ARTHUR.  The  gate  is  between  us.  It  is  keep- 
ing me  from  you.  It  separates  us. 

GERTRUDE.  According  to  the  writers  of  romance, 
it  should  bring  us  together. 

ARTHUR.  It  should  and  it  does.  (She  is  lean- 
ing over  the  gate  smiling  at  him.  He  kissses  her. 
She  does  not  resent  it) 

ARTHUR.     Gertrude! 

GERTRUDE.     Arthur ! 

ARTHUR.    I  love  you. 

GERTRUDE.    And  I  think  I  love  you. 

ARTHUR.    You  will  meet  me  again  by  the  gate? 

GERTRUDE.    Yes,  indeed. 

ARTHUR.     I  must  be  going. 

GERTRUDE.    So  soon  ? 

ARTHUR.    So  soon. 

GERTRUDE.    Alas ! 

ARTHUR.  Good-bye,  sweetheart,  good-bye.  (He 
kisses  her) 

GERTRUDE.  Good-bye,  dear  one.  (He  walks  to 
entrance  lower  R.  then  turns  to  her.  She  waves 
handkerchief  after  him.  He  exits  R.  She  climbs 
on  gate  and  sits  thinking.  Leonard  enters  from 
behind  hedge  L.  He  is  a  blonde  youth  of  (esthetic 
appearance  and  inclined  to  be  pedantic  in  his  speech. 


12  TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

He   pushes   the  gate    to   and  fro,   gently   swinging 
Gertrude} 

GERTRUDE.     Oh — Oh — (Seeing  him}     Leonard 
— how  you  frightened  me. 

LEONARD.    May  I  sit  beside  you? 

GERTRUDE.    Yes,  if  you  wish  it.     (Leonard  sits 
on  gate  beside  her} 

LEONARD.     I  offer  you  my  thanks. 
GERTRUDE.     Isn't  it  a  beautiful  day? 
LEONARD.    Exquisite. 

GERTRUDE.    The  country  is  so  lovely — the  air  so 

fresh. 

LEONARD.     Positively  exhilarating. 
GERTRUDE.    Ah !    It  is  good  to  be  alive. 

LEONARD.     I  agree  with  you,  but  there  are  mo- 
ments when  I  do  not  think  so. 

GERTRUDE.    Whenever  may  they  be? 
LEONARD.    When  I  am  not  near  you. 
GERTRUDE.    You  only  say  that. 
LEONARD.    Positively  I  mean  it. 

GERTRUDE.     On  a  morning  like  this  I  should  be 
happy  anywhere  no  matter  with  whom  I  was. 

LEONARD.    Then  you  are  happy  with  me? 


TOLD  BY  THE  GATE  13 

GERTRUDE.    Yes. 

LEONARD.  I  am  happy  with  you — exquisitely 
happy. 

GERTRUDE.     (Sighs)    Ah! 

LEONARD.  (Sighs)  Ah!  (Leonard  descends 
from  gate,  takes  knife  from  his  pocket  and  com- 
mences to  carve  on  the  woodwork} 

GERTRUDE.     What  are  you  doing? 
LEONARD.     Cutting  our  initials  on  the  gate. 

GERTRUDE.  There  are  hundreds  of  initials  there 
already. 

LEONARD.  Yes,  the  gate  is  old.  It  has  been  the 
meeting  place  of  lovers  for  many,  many  years. 

GERTRUDE.  Here  is  a  heart  carved  between  an 
M.  and  a  J. 

LEONARD.  And  here  is  an  M  linked  by  a  cupid's 
dart  to  an  S. 

GERTRUDE.  I  wonder  if  the  M  stands  for  the 
same  person  in  both  cases. 

LEONARD.     Maybe. 

GERTRUDE.  Then  the  gate  was  witness  to  the 
two  romances. 

LEONARD.     Presumably. 

GERTRUDE.  (Descending  from  the  gate)  Let 
me  see  how  you  are  progressing.  (She  examines  his 
carving) 


i4  TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

LEONARD.     I  have  nearly  finished. 

GERTRUDE.  Oh,  but  you  are  carving  a  heart 
around  our  two  initials. 

LEONARD.    Why  not? 

GERTRUDE.  It  hardly  seems  right.  It  isn't  as 
though  we  were  betrothed. 

LEONARD.  This  heart  has  a  deep  signification. 
It  tells  to  all  who  care  to  observe  it  that  L.  loves  G. 
(Replacing  knife  in  his  pocket) 

GERTRUDE.    Yes,  but  - 

LEONARD.    That  Leonard  loves  Gertrude. 

GERTRUDE.  Most  likely  you  will  carve  other 
initials  the  same  as  M.  did.  Then  the  gate  will 
tell  how  L.  loved  A.  and  B.  and  C.  and  D.  and 


LEONARD.     No.     No.     Only  G.     I  love  you, 
Gertrude.    Do  you  love  me? 

GERTRUDE.    Leonard  ! 

LEONARD.     (Kissing  her)     What  sublime  hap- 
piness is  mine. 

GERTRUDE.       I    must    continue    on    my    way. 
(Walking  R.) 

LEONARD.      (Following  her  down)      You  will 
see  me  again? 

GERTRUDE.    Yes. 


TOLD  BY  THE  GATE  15 

LEONARD.    Before  long? 
GERTRUDE.    Yes. 

LEONARD.  I  will  wait  for  you  at  the  gate  every 
day. 

GERTRUDE.  I  will  try  to  come  every  day.  Good- 
bye. 

LEONARD.  Good-bye,  sweet  Gertrude.  You  take 
my  heart  with  you.  Good-bye.  (Kissing  her  hand) 

(Gertrude  exits  R.  Leonard  walks  slowly  back 
to  gate.  Alice  enters  behind  hedge  and  approaches 
back  of  gate.  She  is  about  to  open  it  when  Leonard 
hurrying  forward  prevents  her) 

LEONARD.  You  must  pay  toll,  lady,  before  you 
pass  the  gate. 

ALICE.    But  I  wish  to  pass. 

LEONARD.    Then  pay  the  toll. 

ALICE.    What  is  the  toll? 

LEONARD.    A  kiss. 

ALICE.     Oh,  but  I  couldn't. 

LEONARD.    Then  I  am  afraid  you  cannot  pass. 

ALICE.     You  have  no  right  to  prevent  me. 

LEONARD.    You  have  no  right  to  refuse  payment. 

ALICE.    Please  let  me  pass. 


16  TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

LEONARD.  If  I  allow  you  to  pass  will  you  inform 
me  of  your  name? 

ALICE.    Oh,  yes. 

LEONARD.  (Opening  gate  and  bowing  to  her  as 
she  enters}  Now  may  I  have  the  privilege  of  hear- 
ing the  unknown  lady's  name? 

ALICE.     My  name  is  Alice.     (Going  R.) 

LEONARD.  I  thank  you.  Must  you  run  away 
like  that? 

ALICE.    Yes.     I 


LEONARD.    Won't  you  stay  and  talk  to  me? 

ALICE.  I  don't  know  you.  You  haven't  been 
introduced  to  me. 

LEONARD.  Let  me  remedy  that  at  once.  I  will 
introduce  myself.  My  name  is  Leonard.  Now  you 
know  me,  may  I  talk  to  you?. 

ALICE.    You  are  talking  to  me. 

LEONARD.    With  your  permission? 

ALICE.     It  is  rather  late  to  ask  permission  now. 

LEONARD.    You  object? 

ALICE.    I  didn't  say  so. 

LEONARD.     I  trust  not.    I  want  us  to  be  friends. 

ALICE.     Perhaps  we  shall  be. 


TOLD  BY  THE  GATE  17 

LEONARD.     Very  good  friends? 

ALICE.  I  cannot  say.  I  haven't  known  you  long 
enough  for  that. 

LEONARD.  That  is  the  reason  we  should  see  a 
great  deal  of  one  .another. 

ALICE.    Why? 

LEONARD.  So  that  you  may  decide  soon  whether 
we  are  to  be  very  good  friends  or  no. 

ALICE.  Why  are  you  so  anxious  for  us  to  be 
such  friends? 

LEONARD.  Because  I  admire  your  ways.  I  like 
your  sweet  voice,  I  love  your  glorious  hair  and  I 
adore  your  beautiful  blue  eyes. 

ALICE.  I  have  several  very  good  friends,  but  none 
of  them  talk  like  that. 

LEONARD.  Then  I  shall  be  a  particular  "very 
good  friend."  When  may  I  see  you  again? 

ALICE.  Oh,  I  could  not  think  of  making  an  ap- 
pointment with  you. 

LEONARD.    Misery  is  mine. 

ALICE.  (Going  up  to  gate}  But  I  pass  through 
this  gate  every  day  about  this  time. 

LEONARD.    Joy  comes  to  me. 
ALICE.    I  love  this  old  gate. 
LEONARD.    I  also. 


1 8  TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

ALICE.    It  is  so  quaint. 
LEONARD.    Exceedingly. 

ALICE.  It  must  be  very  ancient.  Look  at  all  the 
initials  carved  upon  it.  Some  so  old  and  some 
quite  recent. 

LEONARD.  (Hastily  standing  before  the  place  he 
has  recently  carved)  Yes.  Yes. 

ALICE.     How  many  lovers  must  have  met  here! 

LEONARD.  Do  you  wonder  at  it?  A  man  and  a 
maid  would  say  more  to  one  another  by  this  old 
gate  than  anywhere  else.  This  is  the  path  of  ro- 
mance and  this  the  gateway  to  love. 

ALICE.    What  pretty  things  you  say. 

LEONARD.  (Looking  steadfastly  at  her)  I  see 
them  all  in  your  eyes. 

ALICE.     My  eyes? 

LEONARD.  Yes,  those  beautiful  eyes  are  telling 
me  wonderful  things. 

ALICE.     What  do  they  tell  you? 

LEONARD.     They  tell  me  that  I  may  love  you. 

ALICE.    No. 

LEONARD.  Your  lips  say  no,  but  your  eyes  say 
yes. 

ALICE,    My  eyes  must  be  very  forward. 


TOLD  BY  THE  GATE  19 

LEONARD.  Only  truthful;  let  your  lips  be  the 
same. 

ALICE.    My  lips  should  be  sealed. 

LEONARD.    Then  I  will  seal  them.     (Kisses  her) 

ALICE.    You  shouldn't. 

LEONARD.    Why  not,  pretty  Alice? 

ALICE.  You  have  forced  my  lips  to  agree  with 
my  eyes. 

LEONARD.  An  agreement  of  which  I  fully  ap- 
prove. 

ALICE.    Leonard ! 

LEONARD.  I  must  go  now,  Alice.  Farewell,  and 
may  our  next  meeting  be  soon.  (Opens  gate  and 
passes  through} 

ALICE.  I  hope  so.  (He  leans  over  gate,  takes 
off  his  hat  and  kisses  her  behind  it) 

LEONARD.     Till  we  meet  again. 

ALICE.  Good-bye.  (Leonard  exits  upper  en- 
trance L.  behind  hedge.  Alice  looks  after  him, 
leaning  upon  gate.  Arthur  enters  lower  entrance 
R.  and  comes  up  behind  her} 

ARTHUR.     Is   it  possible?     Alice! 
ALICE.     (Turning}     Arthur! 

ARTHUR.  What  a  lucky  accident!  I  am  ever  so 
pleased  to  meet  you  again. 


20  TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

ALICE.    The  last  time  we  met  here,  you  did  not 
seem  very  pleased. 

ARTHUR.     I  cannot  be  anything  else  but  pleased 
when  I  see  you. 

ALICE.    You  spoke  horridly  to  me. 
ARTHUR.     I  was  jealous — that's  all. 
ALICE.    Indeed ! 

ARTHUR.     I  love  you  so  well  I  cannot  help  be- 
ing jealous. 

ALICE.     I  don't  understand  why  you  should  be 
jealous. 

ARTHUR.     You   had   been   speaking   to   another 
man. 

ALICE.     Suppose  I  had? 

ARTHUR.     He  had  been  making  love  to  you. 

ALICE.    Am  I  to  blame  for  that? 

ARTHUR.     You  listened  to  him. 

ALICE.    Could  I  help  it? 

ARTHUR.    Yes,  you  could  have  refused  to  listen. 

ALICE.     I  think  you  are  very  impertinent. 

ARTHUR.    Forgive  me,  Alice,  but  I  love  you. 

ALICE.     I  should  hardly  have  thought  so  from 
your  behaviour. 


TOLD  BY  THE  GATE  21 

ARTHUR.    Forgive  me,  dearest,  forgive  me. 

ALICE.  Why  is  it  we  always  quarrel  by  this 
gate? 

ARTHUR.  Maybe  it  is  because  when  standing  by 
this  old  wooden  frame  I  become  acutely  aware  of 
my  affection  for  you.  I  can  think  of  nothing  else 
and  am  so  afraid  of  losing  you. 

ALICE.  The  gate  has  heard  so  many  of  our 
tiffs. 

ARTHUR.  And  many  other  lovers'  tiffs  and 
reconciliations  too. 

ALICE.     If  the  gate  could  only  speak! 
ARTHUR.     What  stories  it  could  relate. 
ALICE.     I  think  it  just  as  well  it  cannot  talk. 
ARTHUR.     Perhaps  it  is. 
ALICE.     The  dear  old  gate! 

ARTHUR.  Tell  me,  how  long  have  you  been 
here? 

ALICE.     Oh,  quite  a  long  time. 

ARTHUR.    Alone? 

ALICE.    No. 

ARTHUR.    Who  was  with  you? 

ALICE.     Oh, — a  stranger. 

ARTHUR.    A  man? 


22  TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

ALICE.     Er — Er — Yes. 
ARTHUR.     I  knew  it. 
ALICE.    Then  why  ask  me? 
ARTHUR.     Did  he  make  love  to  you? 

ALICE.  I  refuse  to  answer  when  you  speak  like 
that. 

ARTHUR.    He  did.    I  know  he  did. 
ALICE.     Please  keep  your  temper. 

ARTHUR.  Keep  my  temper — Bah!  (Laughs 
wildly ) 

ALICE.     Control  your  feelings. 

ARTHUR.  One  should  have  no  feelings  where 
women  are  concerned.  They  are  all  fickle,  as  false 
as  can  be. 

ALICE.    How  differently  he  spoke  to  me. 

ARTHUR.  You  can  go  to  him.  Let  him  tell  you 
his  tale  of  love — pretend  you  have  always  been  heart 
free — that  no  other  man  has  kissed  you — deceive 
him  as  you  have  deceived  me.  He  will  believe 
you.  The  gate  will  be  the  only  witness  of  your 
perfidy. 

ALICE.  Arthur,  I'll  not  listen  to  you.  I  am 
going.  From  this  moment  everything  is  over  be- 
tween us. 

ARTHUR.     Everything  is.     I'll  not  speak  to  an- 


TOLD  BY  THE  GATE  23 

other  woman  as  long  as  I  live.  Yes,  I  will  though. 
Why  shouldn't  I  ?  I  will  make  love  to  the  first  one 
that  comes  along.  She  will  listen  to  me,  the  same 
as  you  did  once,  and  then  I'll  make  love  to  another 
and  another.  I'll  be  as  fickle  as  you. 

ALICE.    I  hate  you,  Arthur. 

ARTHUR.  And  I  ha —  No,  I  loved  you  once. 
I  cannot  hate  you.  I  am  just  indifferent.  I  am 
waiting  for  another  girl  to  come  along.  (Alice 
stamps  her  foot  indignantly  at  him  and  exits  lower 
entrance  R.) 

ARTHUR.    Farewell!     (Stands  looking  after  her) 

(Enter  Gertrude  along  path  behind  gate.  Arthur 
turns  and  they  meet,  one  each  side  of  the  gate.  The 
dialogue  and  business  are  now  exactly  the  same  as 
at  the  opening  of  the  play) 

ARTHUR.     Gertrude! 

GERTRUDE.    Arthur ! 

ARTHUR.     How  do  you  do? 

GERTRUDE.     Nicely,  I  thank  you.     And  you? 

ARTHUR.  Moderately  well.  I  have  been  waiting 
to  meet  you,  Gertrude.  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you. 

GERTRUDE.    Yes  ? 

ARTHUR.  You  will  think  me  presumptuous,  I 
fear. 


24  TOLD  BY  THE  GATE 

GERTRUDE.     Why  should  I? 

ARTHUR.     I  must  tell  you.     I  can  keep  silent  no 
longer.    Gertrude,  I  love  you. 

(Quick  Curtain) 


THE  MASTERPIECE 

A  Play  in  One  Act 

1914 


CHARACTERS 

MAURICE 

EMILE 

PAULETTE 

HELENE 

SCENE  :  The  Apartment  of  Maurice  in  the  Mont- 
marte,  Paris.  Doors  R.  and  L.  Window  C.  Fire- 
place R.  Table,  chairs,  etc. 


THE  MASTERPIECE 

(Maurice  is  discovered  seated  at  table  ivith  writ- 
ing materials  before  him.  He  reads  over  something 
he  has  written,  is  dissatisfied  and  tears  it  up.  He 
rises  and  walks  up  and  dotvn  the  room  trying  to  con- 
pose  sentences.  He  sits  again,  picks  up  a  pen  and 
writes  a  few  phrases.  Once  more  he  expresses  dis- 
satisfaction and  tears  up  what  he  has  written. 

Enter  Paulette  L.  She  goes  up  behind  him  and 
places  her  arms  around  his  neck} 

PAULETTE.     My  poor  boy,  you  are  worried. 

MAURICE.  The  phrases  will  not  come.  The 
words  elude  me. 

PAULETTE.     Patience,  Maurice,  patience. 

MAURICE.  Patience  never  helped  me  yet.  That 
is  only  for  commonplace  writers.  It  is  inspiration 
I  want. 

PAULETTE.    It  will  come. 

MAURICE.  Paulette,  I  am  going  to  write  a 
masterpiece,  do  you  hear,  a  masterpiece! 

PAULETTE.    I  am  sure  of  it. 

MAURICE.     My  new  book  will  be  the  talk  of 
Paris,  of  France,  of  the  entire  world. 
27 


28  THE  MASTERPIECE 

PAULETTE.     How  proud  I  shall  be  of  my  lover. 

MAURICE.  But  I  cannot  commence  until  the 
moment  of  inspiration.  I  must  have  inspiration. 

PAULETTE.     If  only  I  could  inspire  you! 

MAURICE.  You  cannot.  You  did  once,  but  this 
is  different.  When  I  wrote  "The  Victory  of  Love," 
your  influence  was  essential.  You  loved  me  and 
were  near  me.  Your  presence  alone  enabled  me  to 
write  of  the  joy  and  happiness  of  true  love.  If 
only  I  could  write  with  the  same  facility  now ! 

PAULETTE.    Why  should  it  be  different? 

MAURICE.  Because  the  subject  is  different.  The 
hero  of  my  new  story  is  an  unavailing  lover.  He 
loves  but  is  not  loved.  What  inspiration  can  you 
give  me  when  you  love  me?  If  only  you  did  not. 

PAULETTE.     What  then? 

MAURICE.  Then  my  emotions,  my  feelings, 
would  be  the  same  as  those  of  my  hero.  I  could  de- 
scribe the  futility  of  his  passion,  the  hopelessness  of 
his  affection.  My  despair  would  be  his.  My 
thoughts  would  be  his  and  thus  I  could  write  of  his 
despondency  and  his  misery. 

PAULETTE.  But,  Maurice,  cannot  you  imagine 
all  of  that? 

MAURICE.  No.  I  must  live  it.  It  is  the  only 
way  to  produce  my  masterpiece. 

PAULETTE.    How  can  you  live  it? 


THE  MASTERPIECE  29 

MAURICE.  I  must,  somehow.  Paulette,  you  must 
hate  me — you  must  resist  me — spurn  me — never 
allow  me  to  come  near  you. 

PAULETTE.  Oh,  Maurice,  I  couldn't. 

MAURICE.  You  couldn't? 

PAULETTE.  No,  indeed. 

MAURICE.  Then  you  don't  love  me. 

PAULETTE.  You  know  I  do. 

MAURICE.  If  you  loved  me,  you  would  hate  me 
when  I  asked  you. 

PAULETTE.  I  could  only  pretend,  and  I  am  afraid 
that  would  not  be  much  good,  as  all  the  time  we 
should  know  we  really  loved  each  other. 

MAURICE.  Yes,  pretence  is  no  good.  It  must  be 
the  genuine  thing  with  me.  My  emotions  must  be 
real,  vividly  real. 

PAULETTE.  How  can  you  force  them  to  be  dif- 
ferent from  what  they  are? 

MAURICE.  That  is  easy  if  one  places  one's  work 
first.  Listen,  Paulette.  I  must  have  a  hopeless 
passion.  You  and  I  can  no  longer  be  together — we 
must  forget  each  other — until  my  book  is  completed, 
my  masterpiece  written. 

PAULETTE.    Oh,  Maurice! 

MAURICE.  I  must  make  unavailing  love  to  some 
one.  It  is  absolutely  necessary. 


3o  THE  MASTERPIECE 

PAULETTE.  But — but — Oh,  you  can't  mean  it. 
(Half  crying) 

MAURICE.  I  certainly  do.  Come,  come,  Paulette, 
why  should  you  mind?  It  is  for  the  sake  of  my 
masterpiece.  When  that  is  finished,  we  can  come 
together  again.  Our  love  will  be  all  the  more  glo- 
rious because  of  the  sacrifice  it  has  made  for  art. 

PAULETTE.    You  are  cruel. 

MAURICE.  It  is  you  who  will  be  cruel,  if  you 
hinder  me  from  writing  my  masterpiece.  Let  us 
forget  each  other  until  that  is  written.  Remember, 
I  am  not  going  to  be  untrue  to  you.  It  is  unsuc- 
cessful love  that  I  intend  to  experience. 

PAULETTE.  (Drying  her  eyes)  Whom  are  you 
going  to  make  love  to? 

MAURICE.  That's  a  question.  It  must  be  some 
one  who  cannot  love  me.  Is  there  anybody,  I  won- 
der? 

PAULETTE.    Don't  take  any  risks. 

MAURICE.  If  I  make  my  advances  to  a  girl 
who  has  already  formed  an  attachment,  I  ought  to 
succeed  in  not  succeeding. 

PAULETTE.  There  is  Helene.  She  and  fimile  are 
devoted  to  one  another.  You  would  stand  no  chance 
with  her.  Besides,  she  has  often  asked  me  how 
I  manage  to  endure  you. 

MAURICE.      (Petulantly)     Indeed! 


THE  MASTERPIECE  31 

PAULETTE.    She  will  be  sure  to  reject  you. 
MAURICE.     God  bless  her! 

PAULETTE.  And  as  I  interfere  with  the  compo- 
sition of  your  masterpiece,  I — I'll  pack  my  things 
together  and — and  leave  you.  (Crosses  to  door  L.) 

MAURICE.     God  bless  you! 

PAULETTE.  Since  you  wish  it,  all  is  over  between 
us. 

MAURICE.  Until  my  work  is  completed.  Do 
not  forget  that  my  love  for  you  is  lying  dormant 
and  when  the  book  is  finished  will  revive  a  thousand- 
fold. 

PAULETTE.     Suppose  the  book  is  never  written? 

MAURICE.  (Emphatically)  It  shall  be.  Helene 
will  give  me  inspiration. 

PAULETTE.  Oh ! — I  hope  so.    (Exit  Paulette  L.) 

(Maurice  paces  slowly  backwards  and  forwards. 
He  observes  picture  of  Paulette  on  the  mantelshelf 
R.  He  takes  it  down  regretfully  and  places  it  in 
drawer  of  table  L.  C.  On  looking  up  he  sees  an- 
other picture  of  her  on  the  table.  This  he  also 
intends  to  place  away  in  the  drawer,  but  before 
doing  so  raises  it  to  his  lips) 

(ftmile  and  Helene  enter  door  R.  abruptly) 
£MILE.     Maurice!     Maurice! 

MAURICE.  (Putting  down  picture)  Who's 
there? 


32  THE  MASTERPIECE 

£MILE.    We  are. 

MAURICE.  (Turning  to  them}  fimile,  and  you, 
too,  Helene.  (Shaking  hands  with  them}  De- 
lighted to  see  you  both. 

£MILE.    Have  you  heard  the  news? 
MAURICE.    What  news? 

HELENE.  Jean  Ladureau  has  sold  a  painting  for 
a  thousand  francs.  He  is  celebrating  his  good  for- 
tune at  "Le  Chat  Noir"  and  wants  us  all  to  join 
him. 

MAURICE.     Good ! 

HELENE.  Hurrah  for  Jean.  May  he  sell  many 
more  pictures! 

£MILE.     Where's  Paulette? 

MAURICE.  In  the  next  room.  I'll  go  and  tell 
her.  (Exit  Maurice  L.} 

HELENE.  How  attached  Maurice  is  to  Paulette. 
(Picking  up  picture}  See,  here  is  her  picture.  He 
was  actually  kissing  it  when  we  came  in,  and  she 
only  in  the  next  room. 

£MILE.    Paulette  is  equally  as  devoted  to  him. 

HELENE.  He  is  a  great  artiste  and  loves  as  only 
a  great  artiste  can  love. 

EMILE.  Meaning  that  I,  being  nothing  but  a 
reporter,  cannot  love. 


THE  MASTERPIECE  33 

HELKNE.  I  did  not  say  that.  Maurice  has  won- 
derful thoughts  and  ideas.  His  love  must  be  won- 
derful, too,  and  as  fanciful  as  his  writings,  whereas 
yours  is 

£MILE.    Yes,  mine  is— ? 

HELENE.   Well — just  ordinary  and  commonplace. 

£MILE.  Helene,  you  are  trying  to  pick  another 
one  of  your  quarrels.  Why,  I  have  often  heard 
you  ask  Paulette  how  she  ever  managed  to  endure 
Maurice. 

HELENE.  Oh,  yes,  that  is  a  question  I  ask  every 
girl  concerning  her  lover. 

EMILE.  It  is  remarkable  that  you  endure  me,  see- 
ing that  my  love  is  so  commonplace. 

HELENE.    What  can't  be  cured  must  be  endured. 

EMILE.  You  are  irritating.  I  have  a  good  mind 
to  break  with  you — to  finish  our  "ordinary  and 
commonplace"  romance. 

HELENE.  Do,  if  it  pleases  you,  but  you  will  find 
that  I  have  only  to  beckon  and  you  will  come  back 
to  me. 

SMILE.  Never.  Let  me  tell  you  something.  If 
Paulette  were  not  with  Maurice  she  would  be  with 
me.  I  loved  her  more  than  ever  I  loved  you. 

HELENS.  Maurice  won  her.  I  am  not  surprised 
at  that,  considering  the  difference  between  the  two 
of  vou. 


34  THE  MASTERPIECE 

£MILE.  He  won  her  because  he  wrote  poetry.  He 
would  write  sonnets  to  her  eyes,  her  hair  and  her 
teeth.  Bah — what  is  a  poet?  A  man  who  degrades 
beautiful  thoughts  by  bringing  them  to  the  dull  drab 
level  of  words. 

HELENE.    You  are  jealous  of  him. 

£MILE.  What  became  of  his  poetry  when  he 
found  he  could  not  live  by  it?  Without  a  regret 
he  abandoned  it  and  took  to  prose.  He  writes 
tender  love  stones.  Who  reads  them?  Nobody 
except  a  few  fat  sentimental  old  women. 

HELENE.  Eimile,  you  are  unjust.  He  is  a  great 
author  and  will  one  day  be  acclaimed  so.  As  for 
Paulette,  she  doesn't  deserve  to  be  loved  by  so 
wonderful  a  man. 

(Enter  Paulette  and  Maurice  L.) 
PAULETTE.     Monsieur  £mile.     Helene. 

HELENE.  (Crossing  to  Paulette}  Paulette,  my 
sweet  child,  how  are  you  ?  You  look  pale. 

PAULETTE.     It  is  nothing. 

HELENE.  Surely  you  have  been  crying.  I  feel 
so  concerned  about  you,  darling. 

PAULETTE.  You  are  very  kind,  but  really,  it  is 
nothing. 

£MILE.  Come,  let  us  join  Jean.  It  is  not  often 
that  he  sells  a  picture. 

PAULETTE.   Yes,  let  us  go. 


THE  MASTERPIECE  35 

SMILE.    Come,  then,  to  "Le  Chat  Noir." 

ALL.    To  "Le  Chat  Noir." 

SMILE.     Take  my  arm,  Mademoiselle  Paulette. 

PAULETTE.     With  pleasure,  Monsieur,     (fimile 
and  Paulette  exit  jR.) 

( Throughout  the  following  scene  it  is  apparent 
that  Maurice  is  acting  a  part) 

HELENE.     (At  door  R.,  to  Maurice)     Are  you 
coming  ? 

MAURICE.   Grant  me  a  favour.    Remain  behind  a 
short  while.     I  wish  to  speak  to  you. 

HELENE.    Certainly. 

MAURICE.     I  have  news  that  may  surprise  you. 

HELENE.     What  is  it? 

MAURICE.    Paulette  and  I  are  parting. 

HELENE.     You  are?    But  I  thought— 

MAURICE.     You  thought  that  I  loved  her.     I 
thought  so  myself  once,  but  it  was  a  mistake. 

HELENE.    You  love  some  one  else? 
MAURICE.    Alas,  yes. 

HELENE.    And  this  some  one  is  taking  Paulette's 
place  ? 

MAURICE.    Alas,  no. 

HELENE.    But  you  hope  to  win  her? 


36  THE  MASTERPIECE 

MAURICE.    That  is  impossible. 

HELENS.  Nothing  should  be  impossible  to  you 
who  write  such  beautiful  books. 

MAURICE.  I  am  consumed  with  a  hopeless  pas- 
sion. The  fire  of  love  has  entered  my  heart.  It  is 
burning  me  but  I  cannot  quench  it.  It  will  leave 
me  a  smouldering  cinder  on  the  path  of  life. 

HELENE.     How  poetic! 

MAURICE.  She  has  entered  my  life  and  taken 
entire  possession  of  my  thoughts.  Not  a  minute 
of  the  day  passes  but  what  I  think  of  her,  one  mo- 
ment deluding  myself  with  pictures  of  the  happi- 
ness that  would  come  to  me  were  she  mine,  the  next 
moment  realising  the  sheer  impossibility  of  such  a 
thing. 

HELENE.    But  why  impossible? 

MAURICE.     She  belongs  to  another. 

HELENE.    Have  you  told  her  that  you  love  her? 

MAURICE.  What  is  the  use?  My  pleadings 
would  be  without  avail,  my  words  would  fall  upon 
ears  unattuned  to  them. 

HELENE.    Why  not  put  it  to  the  test? 

MAURICE.  I  dare  not.  I  know  the  answer  too 
well.  Her  face  is  turned  from  me.  Never,  never, 
will  it  be  inclined  in  my  direction.  No,  I  must 
accept  my  fate,  that  of  a  despairing,  unavailing 
lover. 


THE  MASTERPIECE  37 

HELENE.  Who  is  the  lady  who  has  inspired  such 
a  grand  passion  in  you? 

MAURICE.    I  tremble  to  tell  you. 

HELENE.  You  may  have  every  confidence  in  me. 
I  will  never  betray  your  secret. 

MAURICE.  If  I  told  you  I  should  incur  your 
eternal  displeasure. 

HELENE.    How  can  that  be? 

MAURICE.     It  can  be,  because  the  lady  is 

No,  no.     I  dare  not  say  it. 

HELENE.  Please  tell  me.  Since  you  have  told 
me  so  much,  I  shall  be  mortified  if  you  do  not  tell 
me  who  she  is.  You  know  you  may  trust  me  to 
say  nothing. 

MAURICE.  (Falling  on  his  knees  before  her) 
Helene,  it  is  you.  Do  you  understand  now  why  I 
am  unhappy?  You  love  Emile,  you  belong  to  him. 
My  love  must  be  forever  unrequited. 

HELENE.    You  love  me? 
MAURICE.     Alas!  Alas!  Alas! 
HELENE.     Maurice!     How  beautiful! 

MAURICE.  But  I  am  spurned  and  despised.  How 
miserable  I  am! 

HELENE.     Do  not  be  miserable. 

MAURICE.  I  love  you.  I  cannot  help  loving  you. 
My  soul  cries  out  for  you.  Its  cry  is  unheeded.  It 


38  THE  MASTERPIECE 

calls  in  vain.  Oh,  the  torture  of  a  hopeless  passion ! 
Other  men  have  their  loves,  but  I  am  doomed  to 
be  alone — a  pariah,  an  outcast  fated  to  leave  un- 
touched the  rapturous  delights  of  love. 

HELENE.     How  poetic! 

MAURICE.  But  I  can  still  worship  you  from  the 
distance.  You  are  like  the  sun  above  me,  miles 
and  miles  away,  but  you  cannot  prevent  a  solitary 
ray  of  light  from  penetrating  the  darkness  of  my 
lonely  cell. 

HELENE.    Maurice,  your  cell  need  not  be  lonely. 

MAURICE.  You  mean  Paulette  will  be  with  me. 
No,  she  can  stay  with  me  no  longer.  I  do  not  love 
her.  It  is  you  I  want,  Helene. 

HELENE.     You  really  want  me? 

MAURICE.  Madly.  But  why  have  I  told  you? 
How  you  must  hate  me. 

HELENE.    I  do  not  hate  you. 

MAURICE.     No? 

HELENE.    I  love  you,  Maurice.    I  am  all  yours. 

MAURICE.     (Intensely  surprised}     What? 

HELENE.  I  always  preferred  you  to  fimile.  I 
never  suspected  your  feelings  towards  me.  I  have 
always  wanted  you  to  love  me,  and  now  I  give 
myself  to  you. 

MAURICE.    I — I  am  overwhelmed.     (Rising) 


THE  MASTERPIECE  39 

HELENE.  With  joy.  Naturally,  you  are,  dear 
heart. 

MAURICE.    I  thought  you  would  refuse  me. 
HELENE.    You  imagined  I  was  devoted  to  fimile. 
MAURICE.    Yes. 

HELENE.  He  and  I  can  never  agree.  We  are 
always  quarreling.  I  have  been  thinking  of  leaving 
him  for  some  time  and  now  that  I  know  you  love 
me,  everything  is  changed  for  me. 

MAURICE.    And  for  me,  too. 
HELENE.    What  bliss  will  be  ours! 

MAURICE.     Yes,  but 

HELENE.    But  what,  dearest? 
MAURICE.    My  masterpiece. 
HELENE.     Your  masterpiece? 
MAURICE.     I  cannot  write  it  now. 

HELENE.  It  shall  be  a  masterpiece  of  master- 
pieces. I  will  inspire  you  to  write  it. 

MAURICE.    That  is  just  what  you  cannot  do. 
HELENE.     Surely  my  love  must  help  you? 

MAURICE.     You  do  not  understand.     To  help 

me   with    my   masterpiece,  you    should    not   have 

listened  to  my  love-making.  You  have  spoilt  every- 
thing by  saying  "Yes." 

HELENE.     I  don't  understand. 


40  THE  MASTERPIECE 

MAURICE.  It  is  simple  enough.  I  was  trying 
to  experience  the  emotions  that  I  want  my  hero  to 
go  through.  He  is  to  make  love  and  be  refused. 
You  have  upset  my  arrangement  by  accepting  me. 

HELENE.  You  mean  that  all  those  poetic  speeches 
were  meant  for  a  book ;  that  you  do  not  love  me  ? 

MAURICE.  Not  now  that  you  have  listened  to 
my  pleadings. 

HELENE.  You  are  a  horrid,  wicked  deceiver. 
You  tell  me  you  love  me,  and  all  the  time  you  do 
not  love  me. 

MAURICE.  It  is  my  work  that  I  love.  All  my 
real  feelings  and  emotions  have  to  be  sacrificed  for 
the  sake  of  my  art.  It  is  my  method  and  the  results 
should  be  worth  it.  In  order  to  make  my  master- 
piece realistic,  I  have  to  live  the  life  of  my  hero. 

HELENE.  Then  you  intended  me  to  be  the 
means  to  an  end. 

MAURICE.     Forgive  me,  Helene,  forgive  me. 

HELENE.  Never,  never,  I  hate  you,  I  hate  Emile, 
I  hate  all  men. 

(Enter  Paulette  R.) 

PAULETTE.  Aren't  you  coming  over?  We  are 
waiting  for  you. 

HELENE.  Do  not  include  me  in  the  party.  I 
shall  not  be  there. 

PAULETTE.     Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Helene? 


THE  MASTERPIECE  41 

HELENE.  Oh,  nothing.  Maurice  has  been  mak- 
ing love  to  me,  that's  all. 

PAULETTE.  And  fimile  has  been  making  love 
to  me.  Aren't  men  fickle  creatures? 

HELENE.  I'll  never  listen  to  another  as  long  as 
I  live.  (Exit  Helene  £.) 

PAULETTE.  She  seems  upset.  I  knew  she  would 
refuse  you,  but  I  did  not  think  she  would  be  so 
indignant. 

MAURICE.    She  didn't  refuse  me. 
PAULETTE.     No? 

MAURICE.  Consequently  I  had  to  tell  her  that 
she  had  placed  me  in  a  false  position. 

PAULETTE.  You  mean  you  had  placed  her  in  a 
false  position. 

MAURICE.     It's  all  the  same. 

PAULETTE.  No  wonder  she  was  indignant.  I 
should  have  been  the  same  myself.  She  resented 
being  picked  up  and  let  fall  according  to  the  vagaries 
of  the  artistic  temperament. 

MAURICE.  Tell  me,  Paulette,  is  it  true  that 
Emile  has  been  making  love  to  you?  (Paulette  as- 
sents} How  dare  he?  He  knows  that  you  belong 
to  me. 

PAULINE.     I   told  him  that  our  Romance  was 

finished. 

MAURICE.    What  about  Helene? 


42 

PAULETTE.  I  also  told  him  that  you  were  prob- 
ably making  love  to  her. 

MAURICE.  Paulette,  you  know  that  you  are  the 
only  girl  that  I  can  ever  have  any  real  affection  for. 

PAULETTE.    Is  your  affection  ever  real? 

MAURICE.  You  know  it  is.  Look  at  the  happy 
times  we  have  had  together. 

PAULETTE.  Yes,  but  they  are  ended  now,  and 
Emile  says  my  happy  times  in  future  will  be  with 
him. 

MAURICE.  (Incredulously}  Paulette,  you  do 
not  intend  to  leave  me? 

PAULETTE.  My  dear  boy,  I  have  already  left 
you.  We  arranged  all  that  a  short  time  ago. 

MAURICE.     You  can't  mean  it? 

PAULETTE.    I  do. 

MAURICE.     But  what  am  I  to  do  without  you? 

PAULETTE.  What  you  please;  study  your  emo- 
tions, continue  with  your  writing;  perhaps  you  will 
be  famous  one  day. 

MAURICE.  Listen,  Paulette,  I  love  you.  I  al- 
ways have  loved  you  and  always  will.  Do  not  be 
so  cruel  as  to  leave  me!  I  entreat  you  to  remain 
with  me.  I  can't  live  without  you!  If  you  desert 
me  the  sunshine  will  disappear  from  my  life  and  all 
will  be  dark. 


THE  MASTERPIECE  43 

PAULETTE.    You  told  me  to  go. 

MAURICE.  Forget  my  words.  Forgive  me  and 
come  back  to  me.  I  love  you,  Paulette,  I  love  you, 

PAULETTE.  I  loved  you,  too,  once ;  but  after  your 
words  this  morning,  that  love  has  died.  I  do  not 
wish  to  listen  to  you  any  longer. 

MAURICE.  Paulette ! 

PAULETTE.  (Crossing  to  door  R.)     Good-bye. 

MAURICE.  Do  not  go  out  of  my  life ! 

PAULETTE.  Good-bye. 

MAURICE.  Shall  I  never  see  you  again? 

PAULETTE.  Never 

MAURICE.  Ah! 

PAULETTE.  Until  the  masterpiece  is  written. 

MAURICE.  The  masterpiece? 

PAULETTE.  Yes.    Farewell.    (Exit  Paulette  R.) 

(Maurice  looks  after  her,  thinking  deeply.  It 
dawns  upon  him  that  he  has  undergone  the  experi- 
ence he  wished  for  and  that  he  can  now  proceed 
with  his  work.  He  sits  at  the  table,  picks  up  a  pen 
and  slowly  commences  to  write.  He  becomes  more 
and  more  absorbed  in  his  work  and  is  writing  rapidly 
when  the  curtain  descends.} 


RECOLLECTIONS 

A  Matrimonial  Duologue 

1913 


CHARACTERS 

GEORGE  TRAVERS 
MURIEL  TRAVERS 

SCENE:  Sitting  Room  in  the  Trovers'  flat  at 
Kensington.  Doors  R.  and  C.  Fireplace  L.  Ap- 
propriate furniture.  Time,  8  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing. 


RECOLLECTIONS 

(Enter  George,  C.,  in  evening  dress.  He  slowly 
takes  off  hat  and  coat,  sits  near  fireplace,  and  gives 
vent  to  an  expressive  "Damn!"  He  takes  letter  out 
of  his  pocket  and  reads  it,  tears  it  into  small  pieces 
and  throws  it  into  the  fire.  He  watches  the  pieces 
as  they  burn.  Enter  Muriel,  R.,  in  evening  gown 
and  opera  cloak.  She  utters  an  exclamation  of 
surprise  as  she  sees  George.) 

MURIEL.     George!    You  at  home! 
GEORGE.     Why  shouldn't  I  be? 

MURIEL.  It  is  so  unusual  for  you  to  be  here  in 
the  evening. 

GEORGE.  The  unusual  is  not  always  the  impos- 
sible. 

MURIEL.  You  are  generally  at  your  club — or 
somewhere.  It  is  such  a  surprise  to  find  you  at 
home. 

GEORGE.  There  are  more  surprises  in  married 
life  than  are  dreamt  of  in  woman's  philosophy. 

MURIEL.     From  the  hurried  manner  in  which 
you  changed  and  rushed  out  of  the  house  two  hours 
ago,  I  presumed  you  had  an  appointment  for  dinner. 
47 


48  RECOLLECTIONS 

GEORGE.  I  understood  so  myself,  but  the  under- 
standing was  a  misunderstanding. 

MURIEL.  You  haven't  dined?  Poor  dear,  how 
cross  you  must  be. 

GEORGE.     I'm  no  different  from  usual. 
MURIEL.     I  didn't  say  you  were. 
GEORGE.     Besides,  I  have  dined. 

MURIEL.  Then  why  complain?  Where's  the 
misunderstanding  ? 

GEORGE.  I  had  an  appointment  to  dine  with  a 
friend  at  Romano's.  There  was  a  letter  for  me 
at  the  restaurant  saying  that  it  was  all  off.  So 
I  was  left  to  my  own  resources. 

MURIEL.    With  no  pretty  lady  to  make  love  to. 

GEORGE.  I  didn't  say  my  appointment  was  with 
a  lady. 

MURIEL.  Your  air  of  abject  dejection  at  her 
non-appearance  infers  it,  however. 

GEORGE.    Well,  my  friends  are  my  own. 
MURIEL.    Even  if  they  don't  keep  appointments. 

GEORGE.  I  went  on  to  the  club  hoping  to  meet 
some  of  the  fellows  there,  but  they  were  all  out  of 
town,  so  I  dined  alone  in  solitary  state. 

MURIEL.  Good  company,  if  not  particularly 
brilliant. 


RECOLLECTIONS  49 

GEORGE.  It  wasn't  good  enough  for  me,  so  I 
returned  home  to  enjoy  the  society  of  my  wife. 

MURIEL.  Your  wife  is  very  sorry  that  she  can- 
not be  a  makeshift,  much  as  she  would  like  to  be. 
The  fact  is,  she  has  an  engagement  which  she  must 
fulfil.  Besides,  it  is  too  absurd. 

GEORGE.    What? 

MURIEL.  For  a  husband  to  pretend  he  enjoys 
his  wife's  society  after  seven  years  of  married  life. 

GEORGE.     Where  are  you  going? 
MURIEL.    To  keep  an  appointment. 
GEORGE.    With  whom? 

MURIEL.  Your  interest  flatters  me.  With  an 
acquaintance. 

GEORGE.    A  man  or  a  woman? 
MURIEL.    Curious — eh? 

GEORGE.  Oh,  no,  not  at  all.  Don't  tell  me,  if 
you  don't  want  to. 

MURIEL.    I  don't. 

GEORGE.  Of  course  your  friends  are  your  own, 
and  it's  no  business  of  mine.  My  friends  are  my 
own  and 

MURIEL.    It's  no  business  of  mine. 
GEORGE.    Exactly. 


50  RECOLLECTIONS 

MURIEL.    How  perfectly  we  agree. 

(He  lights  cigarette.  She  stands  by  mirror  ar- 
ranging her  cloak,  etc.) 

GEORGE.    What  time  is  your  appointment? 
MURIEL.    Eight  o'clock. 

GEORGE.  You'll  be  late.  It's  a  quarter  past 
now. 

MURIEL.     Oh,  he  can  wait. 
GEORGE.     He? 

MURIEL.  Yes,  it  is  a  he — Henry  Curtis.  He  is 
taking  me  to  the  first  night  at  the  Majestic. 

GEORGE.    That  idiot. 

MURIEL.  Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  hear  my 
friends  insulted? 

GEORGE.    That  man  your  friend. 

MURIEL.  Why  not?  He  has  been  very  atten- 
tive to  me  lately.  Yesterday  he  escorted  me  to  the 
Fine  Arts  Ball,  and  last  Friday  we  went  together 
to  the  Opera. 

GEORGE.  That  man  is  absolutely  void  of  common 
sense. 

MURIEL.  I  think  that's  what  makes  him  so  in- 
teresting. 

GEORGE.    You  think  so? 


RECOLLECTIONS  51 

MURIEL.  Yes.  People  gifted  with  common  sense 
are  generally  very  tedious. 

GEORGE.    Well,  don't  let  me  keep  you  from  him. 

MURIEL.  You're  not.  I  want  him  to  wait  for 
me.  It  does  him  good  to  wait,  and  he  appreciates 
me  all  the  more  when  I  do  arrive. 

GEORGE.  You're  just  the  same  Muriel.  You 
used  to  keep  me  waiting  in  the  same  fashion. 

MURIEL.    I'm  sure  I  never  did. 

GEORGE.  I  have  recollections  of  waiting  hours  at 
stations  and  restaurants  for  you. 

MURIEL.  That  was  your  own  fault — you  were 
always  hours  too  early. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  come  now,  you  must  admit  there 
were  occasions  when  you  were  behind  time. 

MURIEL.  They  were  very  few,  then,  and  I  was 
never  more  than  five  minutes  late. 

GEORGE.  Why,  I  remember  waiting  for  you  one 
time  at  Victoria  from  three  till  half  past  four. 

MURIEL.  That  wasn't  my  fault.  I  couldn't 
travel  by  the  train  I  intended  to  because  father 
happened  to  be  going  up  to  town  that  day.  Remem- 
ber, he  objected  very  strongly  to  our  meetings.  Why, 
he  would  have  had  a  fit  had  he  known  that  I  went 
all  the  way  from  Sutton  to  town  just  to  take  tea 
with  you. 

GEORGE.       (Throwing   away    his   cigarette   and 


52  RECOLLECTIONS 

speaking  enthusiastically}  Yes,  I  remember  seeing 
the  train  in  and  meeting  the  old  boy.  He  seemed 
surprised  to  see  me.  He  little  knew  I  had  a 
rendezvous  with  his  daughter. 

MURIEL.  I  came  on  by  the  next  train,  and,  going 
back,  took  the  one  just  before  father.  He  doesn't 
know  to  this  day  about  that  meeting. 

GEORGE.  That  wasn't  the  only  occasion  when 
we  hoaxed  him. 

MURIEL.  No — there  was  that  time  when  he  and 
I  drove  over  to  Croydon.  You  followed  the  trap 
on  your  bicycle. 

GEORGE.  Yes,  I  kept  you  in  sight  all  the  way. 
He  had  no  suspicion  I  was  behind. 

MURIEL.  Then  he  told  me  to  drive  home  alone, 
as  he  had  business  in  Croydon 

GEORGE.    And  you  drove  home,  but  not  alone. 

MURIEL.  (Laughing}  It  didn't  take  you  long 
to  dispose  of  your  bicycle  -and  to  be  sitting  beside 
me  in  the  trap. 

GEORGE.     What  a  glorious  afternoon  that  was! 
MURIEL.     We  were  happy  enough  then. 
GEORGE.    We  were. 

MURIEL.  Although  I  remember  you  said  you 
would  never  be  happy  until  we  were  man  and  wife. 

GEORGE.   Did  I? 


RECOLLECTIONS  53 

MURIEL.  You  did,  and  you  were  tremendously 
emphatic  about  it. 

GEORGE.  And  you  said,  too,  that  you  would 
never  be  really  happy  until  we  were  married. 

MURIEL.     I  said  that? 

GEORGE.  Yes,  I  know  I  kissed  you  over  and 
over  again  for  saying  it. 

MURIEL.     And  now  we  are  married. 

GEORGE.     Yes. 

MURIEL.    How  happy  we  must  be. 

GEORGE.  You  say  that  as  if  we  weren't  happy 
now. 

MURIEL.  But  we  are,  if  our  own  prophecies  are 
to  be  believed. 

GEORGE.  Perfect  happiness  does  not  belong  to 
the  present  tense;  it  is  either  past  or  future. 

MURIEL.  And  ours  belonged  to  the  future,  but 
now  belongs  to  the  past. 

GEORGE.  You  seem  to  be  enjoying  the  present, 
however.  You  have  plenty  of  distractions,  to  say 
nothing  of  that  idiot  of  a  Curtis  to  make  love  to  you. 

MURIEL.  He  doesn't  make  love  to  me.  Our  re- 
lations are  everything  they  should  be. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  I  don't  doubt  it  is  an  innocent 
flirtation,  if  flirtations  are  ever  innocent. 


54  RECOLLECTIONS 

MURIEL.  What  a  thing  to  accuse  me  of !  Why, 
I  never  flirt. 

GEORGE.  You  always  were  a  flirt,  Muriel.  I 
remember  on  your  mother's  At-Home  days  you 
flirted  with  every  man  who  called. 

MURIEL.     Oh,  no! — not  every  one. 

GEORGE.  Well,  all  who  were  worth  flirting 
with. 

MURIEL.  That's  more  like  it,  and  don't  forget, 
you  were  one  of  the  favoured  few. 

GEORGE.  Yes,  and  how  jealous  I  was  of  the 
others. 

MURIEL.  Oh,  but  they  didn't  seriously  count 
with  me. 

GEORGE.     I  wasn't  able  to  tell  that  until  I 


MURIEL.  Until  you  were  silly  enough  to  propose 
and  I  was  silly  enough  to  accept  you. 

GEORGE.     Do  you  remember  that  day,  Muriel? 

MURIEL.  Do  I  remember?  A  woman  always 
remembers  her  first  three  proposals,  and  yours  was 
only  my  second. 

GEORGE.    It  was  my  very  first. 

MURIEL.  That  sounds  as  if  you  had  made  a 
good  many  since. 

GEORGE.  I  should  have  said,  you  are  the  only 
woman  I  ever  proposed  to. 


RECOLLECTIONS  55 

MURIEL.  That  accounts  for  the  terrible  mess 
you  made  of  it. 

GEORGE.  I  say,  now,  I  flatter  myself  I  did  it 
very  neatly. 

MURIEL.     (Laughs} 
GEORGE.    That  amuses  you. 

MURIEL.  Oh,  George,  if  only  you  could  have 
seen  how  ridiculous  you  looked. 

GEORGE.     Ridiculous? 

MURIEL.  Yes,  you  hemmed  and  hawed  and 
spluttered  until  I  was  really  afraid  you  would 
never  get  it  out. 

GEORGE.    Afraid? 

MURIEL.  Well,  of  course  I  wanted  you  to  finish, 
once  you  had  started. 

GEORGE.  I  came  to  the  point  in  a  straightfor- 
ward, manly  way. 

MURIEL.  (Laughing}  Oh,  you  came  to  the 
point  all  right,  but  you  stopped  once  or  twice  on 
the  way. 

GEORGE.  I  suppose  you  were  as  much  amused 
then  as  you  are  now. 

MURIEL.  (Changing  her  tone}  No,  indeed;  that 
was  the  greatest  moment  of  my  life.  I  wish  I  could 
live  it  all  over  again. 


56  RECOLLECTIONS 

GEORGE.    You  do? 
MURIEL.     Yes. 

GEORGE.  Then,  by  Jove,  you  shall.  I'll  propose 
to  you  again. 

MURIEL.     Exactly  as  you  did  seven  years  ago? 

GEORGE.     Exactly. 

MURIEL.     Can  you  remember  what  you  said? 

GEORGE.  I  ought  to  be  able  to.  I  practised  it 
long  enough  beforehand. 

MURIEL  (Taking  off  her  cloak}  Then  we'll 
go  over  the  scene  just  as  it  happened  seven  years 
ago. 

GEORGE.  Your  father  was  out  when  I  called  at 
the  house  and  you  were  in  the  drawing  room,  I 
think. 

MURIEL.    Yes,  seated  on  the  sofa,  reading  a  book. 
GEORGE.     Were  you  reading? 

MURIEL.  I  recollect  distinctly.  I  knew  your 
knock  and  did  not  want  you  to  find  me  unoccupied. 
(Picking  up  book  and  sitting  on  sofa  R.)  Here 
I  am  on  the  sofa.  You  are  outside  in  the  hall. 

GEORGE.    Right.     (Goes  outside  door  C.) 
MURIEL.     Now  for  the  momentous  occasion. 
GEORGE.     (From  outside)     Are  you  ready? 


RECOLLECTIONS  57 

MURIEL.    Yes. 

(George  enters  briskly  and  speaks  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  way} 

GEORGE.  Good  afternoon,  Muriel.  How  do  you 
do.  Charming  day  to-day. 

MURIEL.     (Laughing}     Not  a  bit  like  it. 
GEORGE.    No  ? 

MURIEL.  You  didn't  come  into  the  room  like 
that.  Why  that  is  your  best  solicitor's  manner,  and 
I  never  had  enough  faith  in  you  to  become  your 
client.  You  came  in  very  quietly,  and  you  didn't 
talk  about  the  weather. 

GEORGE.  Oh — Well,  I'll  try  again.  (Goes  up 
to  door  C.} 

MURIEL.  I  don't  believe  you  remember  anything 
about  it. 

GEORGE.  I  do.  You'll  see  this  time.  (George 
goes  outside  door.  He  re-enters,  opening  the  door 
cautiously,  and  creeps  down  to  back  of  sofa  where 
Muriel  is  sitting,  pretending  to  read.  He  places 
his  hand  over  her  eyes} 

MURIEL.  Who  is  it?  (Releasing  herself  and 
rising}  Hullo,  George. 

GEORGE.  Hullo,  Muriel.  I  knew  the  old  man 
was  going  to  be  away,  so  I  came  down  especially 
to  see  you.  (He  shakes  hands  with  her.  They  smile 
at  each  other} 


58  RECOLLECTIONS 

MURIEL.     How  nice  of  you. 

GEORGE.  I've  brought  you  these.  I  hope  you'll 
like  them.  (Produces  imaginary  parcel  and  hands 
it  to  her) 

MURIEL.  Thank  you.  (Resumes  seat  on  sofa 
and  opens  the  parcel  in  pantomime)  Oh,  what 
a  lovely  box  of  chocolates! 

GEORGE.    I  wonder  what  I  said  next. 

MURIEL.  You  didn't  say  anything.  You  were 
too  busy  helping  me  to  eat  the  chocolates. 

GEORGE.  So  I  was.  (They  both  pretend  to  be 
busy  eating  chocolates) 

MURIEL.    Go  on  with  your  proposal. 

GEORGE.  (Pretending  to  be  nervous  and  speaking 
very  slowly)  Muriel,  I  want  to  ask  you  something 
— you  must  know  what  it  is.  You  cannot  fail  to 
have  observed  that  I — that  I 

MURIEL.    Oh — Oh 


GEORGE.    What's  the  matter? 

MURIEL.  This  is  a  ginger  one.  I  don't  like  gin- 
ger. You  have  it.  (Places  imaginary  chocolate 
which  she  has  bitten  into  George's  mouth) 

GEORGE.  You  cannot  fail  to  have  observed 
that 

MURIEL.  That  you  have  your  mouth  full  and 
it  is  utter  bad  form  to  make  love  with  your  mouth 


RECOLLECTIONS  59 

full  of  chocolate  and  ginger. 

GEORGE.  (Hastily  sivallows  what  is  supposed 
to  be  in  his  mouth]  There,  it's  gone,  and  now  it 
isn't  bad  form  for  me  to  make  love.  (Approaches 
her  and  takes  her  by  the  hands]  You  cannot  fail 

MURIEL.  Oh,  there — you've  upset  the  box. 
How  clumsy  you  are.  Please  pick  them  up.  (He 
picks  up  the  chocolates  one  by  one  and  places  them 
in  the  box,  which  he  returns  to  her] 

MURIEL.    Thank  you. 

GEORGE.    You  cannot  fail  to  have  observed  that 


MURIEL.     If  you  say  that  again  I  shall  scream. 
GEORGE.      Muriel. 

MURIEL.  If  you  want  to  ask  me  to  marry  you, 
do  it  in  a  natural  manner.  Don't  stand  there  tell- 
ing me  that  I  cannot  fail  to  have  observed,  just  as 
if  I  were  the  heroine  in  a  cheap  novel. 

GEORGE.  Make  fun  of  me  if  you  like,  but  I'm 
serious.  (Speaking  deliberately)  Will  you  be  my 
wife? 

MURIEL.  (Imitating  his  tone;  rising)  Will 
you  be  less  theatrical? 

GEORGE.  ( Taking  her  in  his  arms  and  speaking 
ardently)  Look  here,  Muriel,  you  have  just  got 
to  be.  Do  you  understand?  You've  got  to  marry 


60  RECOLLECTIONS 

me. 

MURIEL.  Well,  of  course,  if  you  insist. 

GEORGE.  I  do. 

MURIEL.  Then  I  suppose  I  must. 

GEORGE.  (Rapturously)     Muriel. 

MURIEL.  (Returning  abruptly  to  present  time) 
Splendid,  but  you  forgot  to  kiss  me. 

GEORGE.     So  I  did — there.      (Kisses  her) 

MURIEL.  Oh,  but  you  didn't  give  me  a  peck 
like  that. 

GEORGE.  (Holds  her  in  his  arms  and  gives  her 
a  long  kiss)  Is  that  it? 

MURIEL.    That's  better. 

GEORGE.  And  then  we  had  to  break  the  news  to 
your  father. 

MURIEL.  Poor  Papa.  He  never  seemed  to  take 
to  you.  He  said  you  were  a  perfect  fool. 

GEORGE.   Oh,  did  he? 

MURIEL.  And  I  used  to  tell  him  that  a  perfect 
fool  might  make  a  perfect  husband,  but  an  imper- 
fect fool — never. 

GEORGE.  Anyhow,  you  managed  to  make  him 
consent  to  our  engagement. 

MURIEL.  Yes,  after  he  had  raved  and  carried  on, 


RECOLLECTIONS  61 

abusing  everybody  and  everything.  It  was  only 
when  he  saw  how  determined  I  was  to  marry  you 
that  he  gave  in. 

GEORGE.    I  was  equally  determined  to  marry  you. 

MURIEL.  Yes,  we  meant  to  have  our  own  way 
in  that  small  matter. 

GEORGE.     How  absorbed  we  were  in  each  other. 

MURIEL.  Now  we  don't  seem  at  all  indispens- 
able to  each  other. 

GEORGE.   You  have  Henry  Curtis  to  interest  you ! 

MURIEL.  And  you  have  an  unknown  lady  with 
whom  you  dine  at  Romano's. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  she  doesn't  count.  I  don't  really 
care  a  rap  for  her.  She  is  only  a  distraction. 

MURIEL.  I  can't  even  call  Henry  Curtis  that. 
He  is  so  senseless. 

GEORGE.  Then  why  go  with  him  to-night? 

MURIEL.  I  don't  intend  to. 

GEORGE.  What  are  you  going  to  do? 

MURIEL.  Stay  at  home  with  you. 

GEORGE.  What  about  your  appointment? 

MURIEL.  I've  finished  with  him.  You  can  be 
much  more  entertaining — especially  when  you  re- 
hearse love  scenes. 

GEORGE.     Can't  we  make  those  rehearsals  real? 


62  RECOLLECTIONS 

MURIEL.  George,  you  forget  that  we  have  been 
married  seven  years. 

GEORGE.  And  we  should  be  nearer  and  closer 
to  each  other,  instead  of  drifting  apart  as  we  are 
doing. 

MURIEL.    What  about  the  unknown  lady? 

GEORGE.  She  always  came  a  long  way  after  you, 
but  now  I  give  her  up  completely. 

MURIEL.  (Going  to  him  and  speaking  quietly} 
George,  I  don't  think  our  married  life  has  been  all 
we  intended  it  to  be. 

GEORGE.     It's  my  fault.     I've  neglected  you. 

MURIEL.  And  my  fault,  too.  I've  been  indif- 
ferent and  allowed  other  men  to  flirt  with  me. 

GEORGE.  Let's  begin  again.  Let  us  go  back  to 
the  first  few  months  after  our  wedding. 

MURIEL.  Yes.  We  won't  allow  our  affection  to 
simmer  any  more. 

GEORGE.  Do  you  remember,  I  used  to  sit  in  this 
chair?  (Sits  in  chair  near  fire) 

MURIEL.  Yes.  (She  goes  to  lamp  on  table  and 
turns  it  out)  The  light  would  be  out  and  I  would 
sit  beside  you  with  my  head  on  your  shoulder. 
(Seats  herself  so.  The  light  from  the  fire  falls  upon 
their  figures) 

GEORGE.    We  would  sit  looking  into  the  fire. 


RECOLLECTIONS  63 

MURIEL.  And  we  would  see  wonderful  things 
there. 

GEORGE.  Then  I  would  take  out  a  cigarette. 
(He  takes  out  cigarette  and  places  it  in  his  mouth} 

MURIEL.  And  I  would  insist  on  lighting  it  for 
you.  (She  rises,  takes  matches  from  mantelshelf 
and  lights  his  cigarette} 

MURIEL.  And  before  I  allowed  you  to  enjoy 
your  smoke 

GEORGE.    You  would  kiss  me. 

MURIEL.  Like  that.  (She  kisses  him,  then  sits 
on  his  knee  with  an  arm  round  his  neck.  The  light 
from  the  fire  burns  low  and  they  are  barely  dis- 
cernible by  the  audience} 

GEORGE.    And  do  you  recollect  when 

( The  Curtain  falls  in  time  to  prevent  completion 
of  speech} 


THE  COSHER 

A  Play  in  One  Act 

1914 


CHARACTERS 

JIM   SMITH 

DICK 

MRS.  MARTIN 

FANNY 

SCENE:  Interior  of  a  mean  tenement  at  Lime- 
house,  London.  Door  L.  Broken-down  bed  R.  C. 
Chairs  and  table  L.  C.  Dingy  oil-lamp  on  table, 
alight. 


THE  COSHER 

(Fanny  discovered  on  bed.  She  is  a  young  woman, 
untidy  and  shabbily  dressed,  but  not  without  physi- 
cal attractions.} 

(Enter  Jim.  He  is  a  weak-looking  man  of  about 
twenty- five.} 

JIM.     Are  you  asleep,  Fanny? 

FANNY.  No.  I've  been  expecting  of  you  a  long 
time.  Have  you  prigged  anything? 

JIM.  No,  I  ain't.  Luck's  against  me  to-day, 
Give  us  a  kiss,  Fanny.  (Approaching  her} 

FANNY.  (Rising  and  facing  him}  Have  you 
got  any  money? 

JIM.  Not  a  stiver.  I  ain't  had  any  luck,  I  tell 
you. 

FANNY.    Then  keep  your  paws  off  me. 

JIM.  'Tain't  my  fault,  I'm  no  good  at  pinching 
things.  I've  been  trying  to  get  a  job — somewhere 
where  I  could  work  honest. 

FANNY.  Dry  up  with  that  Bible  Class  stuff. 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you've  been  wasting  all  the 
day  looking  for  a  job? 

67 


68  THE  COSHER 

JIM.  Not  all  the  day.  I  was  a  keeping  my  eye 
open  for  something  to  prig,  but  there  was  always 
a  cop  around  and,  blime  me,  I  was  afraid  of  being 
nabbed — then  I'd  be  sent  away  from  you,  and  I 
couldn't  stand  that. 

FANNY.  Garn,  a  lot  of  use  you  are  to  a  girl.  I 
wish  you  was  nabbed. 

JIM.     Don't  say  that,  Fanny.     I  loves  you. 

FANNY.  Then  why  don't  you  get  some  hoof? 
The  other  blokes  as  I  lived  with  looked  after  me 
proper,  they  did. 

JIM.     God-damn  'em. 

FANNY.  Why  in  hell  I  took  up  with  you,  Jim 
Smith,  blovved  if  I  know. 

JIM.  I  reckon  you  took  up  with  me  'cos  I'd  a 
bit  of  money  in  my  pocket  when  you  first  met 
me.  Now  that's  gone,  you  want  me  to  go  too. 

FANNY.  No,  I  don't.  I  like  you  better  than  the 
others.  I  do  straight,  Jim,  seeing  as  you  don't 
knock  me  about  like  they  did.  But  I  don't  want 
you  to  be  afraid  and  ashamed  of  prigging.  How  do 
you  think  we're  going  to  live,  if  you  don't  get  no 
money  somehow? 

JIM.  I  tell  you,  I'll  get  a  job  soon,  then  it'll  be 
all  right. 

FANNY.  That's  what  you're  always  a  saying, 
and  a  fat  chance  you  got  of  getting  a  regular  job. 


THE  COSHER  69 

JIM.    I  had  one  once. 

FANNY.  Yes,  carman,  fifteen  bob  a  week,  and 
3'ou  got  the  sack  and  won't  be  took  on  anywhere's 
else  without  a  character. 

JIM.    Well,  anyhow,  I  ain't  no  good  as  a  thief. 
FANNY.    You  ain't  no  good  as  anything. 
JIM.    That's  it,  go  for  me. 

FANNY.  Can't  you  get  some  more  splosh  out  of 
your  blooming  brother? 

JIM.  How  can  I,  when  I  don't  know  where  he 
is?  Besides,  he  ain't  always  got  money.  Soon  as 
he  gets  on  shore  he  spends  it.  Booze  and  girls, 
them's  his  hobbies. 

FANNY.    You  got  some  out  of  him  before. 

JIM.  Yes,  he  was  awful  good  to  me,  my  brother 
was.  He  give  me  a  couple  of  quid  'cos  I  was  out 
o'  work,  then  I  meets  you  and  your  old  mother, 
and  between  you,  you  soon  get  rid  of  it  for  me. 

FANNY.  Well,  you've  had  something  for  it, 
ain't  you? 

JIM.  Yes,  from  you ;  but  the  old  woman,  I  don't 
see  why  she  should  have  my  money  to  buy  herself 
gin  with.  I  don't  want  her  here  with  us,  either — 
see? 

FANNY.  Don't  you  say  nothing  against  my 
mother. 


70  THE  COSHER 

JIM.     I  ain't;  I  only  said  as 

FANNY.  You  are — just  you  shut  up  about  her; 
she's  my  mother,  and  whoever  has  me  has  to  have 
her. 

(Mrs.  Martin  heard  off  L.  singing  "Home  Sweet 
Home"  in  a  maudlin  voice} 

JIM.     Here  she  is.     Damn  her! 

(Enter  Mrs.  Martin,  a  draggled,  unkempt,  pre- 
maturely old  woman.  It  is  very  apparent  she  has 
been  drinking,  although  she  has  control  of  her 
senses) 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Hullo,  Dearies.  How  are  the 
little  love-birds  in  their  nest?  (Singing)  No  mat- 
ter how  lowly,  there's  no  place  like  Home. 

FANNY.    Shut  up! 

MRS.  MARTIN.  There's  a  nice  way  to  talk  to  your 
own  mother,  what  is  your  own  flesh  and  blood. 
Shame  on  you,  Fanny  Martin,  shame  on  you ! 

JIM.     You're  drunk  again,  you  old  devil! 

MRS.  MARTIN.  I'm  not  a  devil.  I'm  Fanny's 
mother.  Fanny's  an  angel.  I'm  her  mother,  the 
mother  of  an  angel,  so  I  must  be  an  archangel. 
( Throws  herself  on  to  the  bed) 

FANNY.    Who's  been  treating  of  you? 
MRS.  MARTIN.    Treating  of  me? 
FANNY.     Yes,  who  gave  you  the  booze? 


THE  COSHER  71 

MRS.  MARTIN.    Who  do  you  think? 
FANNY.    Dunno. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Polly  Rrown.  She's  a  good  old 
sort,  is  Polly.  She's  a  buying  drinks  for  every  one 
down  at  the  Red  Lion.  She  and  her  man  had  a 
good  cosh  to-day. 

JIM.     A  cosh? 
(Fanny  sits  on  table} 

MRS.  MARTIN.  They  got  four  pound,  ten — to  say 
nothing  of  a  watch  and  chain  and  etcetras. 

JIM.  What!  have  they  been  a  robbing  of  some 
one? 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Put  it  like  that,  if  you  like,  my 
innocent.  You  ain't  robbed  any  one,  have  you? 
Oh,  dear,  no,  'tain't  likely. 

JIM.    I  didn't  until  I  took  up  with  Fanny. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  And  nice  easy  clicks  they've  been, 
too,  a  nicking  things  outside  a  shop  when  the  cove 
wasn't  looking;  why,  a  kid  could  do  that.  Why 
don't  you  do  a  click  as  would  make  Fanny  proud 
of  you? 

JIM.  Don't  you  shove  in  your  spoke;  what's  me 
and  Fanny  got  to  do  with  you? 

MRS.  MARTIN.  She's  my  girl  and  it's  my  duty  to 
see  as  she's  treated  properly.  A  nice  way  you're 
treating  of  her.  What  you  does  for  her,  I  dunno. 


72  THE  COSHER 

What  she  sees  in  you,  I  dunno.  Why  she  sticks  to 
you,  I  dunno — she  ain't  got  nothing  much  out  of 
you. 

JIM.     I'll  get  a  job  soon. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  You  think  you  will;  you  ain't 
the  only  one  as  has  thought  that.  And  what  are 
you  going  to  do  till  you  get  a  job — going  to  starve, 
ain't  you;  going  to  let  her  starve  and  going  to  let  me 
starve? 

JIM.     No,  I  ain't. 

MRS.  MARTIN.    What  are  you  going  to  do,  then? 

JIM.  I'm  going  to  prig  something  when  I  get 
the  chance. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  When  you  get  a  chance.  God 
love  a  duck,  when  do  you  think  that'll  be? 

JIM.     I  dunno. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Why  don't  you  make  the  chance, 
same  as  any  decent  bloke  would? 

JIM.    What  can  I  do? 

MRS.  MARTIN.  What  can  you  do?  My  eye, 
you're  a  innocent,  you  are!  You  ought  to  have 
golden  wings,  you  ought,  and  be  playing  a  golden 
harp. 

FANNY.  Shut  up,  mother.  Don't  you  make  fun 
of  Jim;  he's  all  right,  he  is. 


THE  COSHER  73 

MRS.  MARTIN.  (Rising)  That's  it,  turn  round 
on  your  mother,  her  as  has  reared  you  and  brought 
you  up  in  the  path  you  should  go. 

FANNY.  Jim  and  me  can  get  on  all  right,  don't 
you  fret. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Same  as  Polly  Brown  and  her 
man. 

FANNY.  (Rising)  What  they  can  do,  we  can 
do.  (Putting  on  hat  and  shawl)  Jim,  I'm  a  going 
out. 

JIM.    Where  you  going? 

FANNY.     I'm  going  to  find  a  bloke. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  That's  right,  my  dear;  spoken 
like  the  child  of  your  mother. 

JIM.     What  do  you  mean? 

FANNY.    What  I  says.    I'm  going  to  find  a  bloke. 

JIM.    You're  giving  me  the  chuck? 

FANNY.  Course  not.  I'm  going  to  bring  some 
spondulicks  to  you. 

JIM.  You're  carrying  on  with  other  fellows.  I 
ain't  going  to  have  it,  though.  I  ain't  that  sort. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Go  down  near  the  docks,  dearie, 
get  hold  of  a  sailor  boy,  one  as  has  had  no  time  to 
spend  his  money. 

JIM.     Blast  you,  you  old  hag. 


74  THE  COSHER 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Blast  yourself,  a  trying  to  spoil 
my  girl's  prospects. 

FANNY.  I'm  going.  I'll  get  a  bloke  and  bring 
him  back  here. 

JIM.     God's  truth,  Fanny,  do  you  mean  it? 

FANNY.  Keep  your  hair  on.  I  ain't  going  to 
have  no  truck  with  him.  I'll  bring  him  back,  you 
keep  out  of  the  way,  then  when  I  puts  out  the  light, 
come  in  and  cosh  him. 

JIM.     Cosh  him? 

FANNY.  Biff  him  on  the  head,  and  then  we  gets 
all  he  has  on  him.  Clear  out  of  the  way  when  I 
come  back,  or  he  might  suspect  something.  If  I've 
got  any  one  with  me,  I'll  sing  a  bit  downstairs,  so 
that  you'll  know.  (Exit  Fanny) 

JIM.     'Ere,  Fanny,  I  ain't 

MRS.  MARTIN.  (Catching  hold  of  Jim,  ivho  is 
starting  after  Fanny)  Don't  be  a  damn  fool, 
Jimmy 

JIM.  Leave  me  alone,  curse  you.  It's  all  along 
of  you  that  Fanny's  gone  off. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  If  she  had  always  a  listened  to 
me,  she'd  a  done  much  better  for  herself,  too,  that 
she  would.  She's  wasting  of  herself  on  you,  that's 
what  she  is.  Pity  you  don't  take  yourself  off. 

JIM.  I  know  I  ain't  no  use,  but  I  love  her  too 
much  to  leave  her. 


THE  COSHER  75 

MRS.  MARTIN.  I  suppose  you  think  she  loves 
you. 

JIM.  Sometimes  I  think  she  do  and  sometimes  I 
think  she  don't. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Well,  she  loves  her  old  mother 
best  of  all,  let  me  tell  you  that.  (Laughs} 

JiM.  I  wish  to  God  I'd  never  seen  her.  You've 
made  a  thief  of  me,  between  -you,  and  now — 

MRS.  MARTIN.  And  now  she's  going  to  give  you 
a  chance  to  make  some  coin — some  for  her,  some  for 
you  and  some  for  me. 

JIM.     I  won't  do  it. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Oh,  yes,  you  will,  just  as  a  sign 
of  affection  for  my  lovely  daughter. 

JIM.     You  old  cat! 

Mrs.  MARTIN.  My,  what  a  lot  of  fancy  names 
you  have  got  for  me,  to  be  sure,  me  as  is  your  best 
friend.  Look  here,  my  lad,  if  you  don't  down  this 
here  josser  she  gets  hold  of,  what  do  you  think  is 
going  to  happen?  What's  the  bloke  coming  here 
for— eh? 

JIM.     Blime  me  if  he  touches  her,  I'll  kill  him. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  That's  right,  dearie,  now  you're 
talking. 

JIM.  But  she  don't  mean  it,  she  ain't  gone  after 
any  one. 


76  THE  COSHER 

MRS.  MARTIN.  (Insinuatingly}  She'll  be  back 
soon  and  you  may  bet  your  life  she'll  have  a  new 
found  gentleman  friend  with  her. 

JIM.  How  do  you  know?  Maybe  it's  only  her 
talk. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Many's  the  time  she's  done  it 
afore.  When  she  and  Bill  Harvey  was  together  it 
were  quite  a  business  with  them.  Bill  was  a  bit  of  a 
bruiser  and  knocked  the  men  out  fair. 

JIM.  My  brother  was  right.  He  said  all  women 
was  hell. 

MRS.  MARTIN.    Oh,  did  he? 

JIM.  He  ought  to  know,  too,  he  spends  all  his 
money  on  'em.  Says  he,  "Keep  your  eyes  open  when 
you  go  with  'em — pay  'em  for  what  you  has  and  for 
the  Lord's  sake  don't  get  tied  up  to  one." 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Pity  you  didn't  mind  what  your 
brother  said,  you  dirty  funk. 

JIM.     I  ain't  a  funk. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  You  are,  to  let  another  bloke 
go  with  Fanny. 

JIM.  I  ain't  a  going  to  let  him.  She  belongs 
to  me  and  I'm  a  going  to  keep  her — See? 

MRS  MARTIN.  That's  right,  that's  right.  When 
she  brings  him  along — cosh  him. 

JIM.     I  will  too. 


THE  COSHER  77 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Fanny'll  be  proud  of  you  and  I'll 
be  proud  of  you.  There's  a  cosh  stick  as  Fanny  has 
got  hid  outside.  I'll  show  you  how  to  use  it;  you 
bangs  the  cove  behind  the  head  with  the  knob  part 
and  then,  bless  your  heart,  he  don't  know  no  more 
until  he  wakes  up  and  finds  some  kind  friends  have 
borrowed  all  his  valuables. 

JIM.     Serve  him  blooming  well  right. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  But  you  has  to  be  careful.  If 
you  hits  him  on  top  of  the  head  and  hard  you  might 
send  him  to  kingdom  come  and  that  would  be  awk- 
ward for  you  if  the  cops  got  to  know;  it  would  be 
a  case  of  swinging  for  you  then. 

JIM.  I  don't  care  where  I  hits  him,  if  he  touches 
Fanny. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  You  must  be  careful,  I  tell  you. 
Don't  worry  yourself  about  Fanny.  She  won't  let 
him  go  too  far.  (Fanny  heard  singing  outside) 

JIM.    That's  her. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  She's  got  her  man.  Clear  out; 
he  mustn't  see  you.  Go  on,  off  you  get.  Hide 
somewheres;  I'll  come  soon  and  give  you  the  cosh 
stick.  (Pushes  him  off  L.  Mrs.  Martin  smooths 
out  bedclothes  and  makes  a  pretence  of  arranging 
room  in  order) 

(Enter  Fanny  and  Dick.  He  is  dressed  in  sailor 
costume  and  considerably  the  worse  for  drink) 

MRS.  MARTIN.    Oh,  there  you  are,  Mrs.  Burton. 


78  THE  COSHER 

I  wasn't  expecting  of  you  in.    I've  just  been  tidying 
up  your  room  a  bit. 

DICK.    Who's  the  old  girl  ? 

FANNY.  That — that's  Mrs.  Dawson,  my  land- 
lady. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Pleased  to  know  you,  Sir. 
You're  Mr.  Burton,  ain't  you,  Mrs.  Burton's  long- 
lost  husband  of  whom  she's  always  a  talking? 

DICK.     Eh — Oh,  yes — I'm  him. 

MRS.  MARTIN.    I  knew  it. 

FANNY.     You  can  hook  it,  Mrs.  Dawson. 

DICK.     Yes,  skedaddle,  old  girl,  can't  you? 

MRS.  MARTIN.  You  want  to  be  left  alone,  not 
having  seen  each  other  for  so  long. 

FANNY.    You've  hit  it. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Ahem!  You  owes  me  some- 
thing for  the  rent,  Mrs.  Burton,  perhaps  your  dear 
husband,  now  he's  come  back,  will  pay  it  for  you. 

DICK.  You  ain't  going  to  get  any  money  out 
of  me.  I've  got  no  dealings  with  you. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Then  you  can't  stay  in  this  here 
room. 

DICK.  (To  Fanny)  What's  this  you've  brought 
me  to? 

FANNY.      (To  Dick)      Give  her   a  bob,   she'll 


THE  COSHER  79 

sling  her  hook  all  right  then. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  I  must  stand  for  my  rights, 
dearies.  If  you  can  just  give  me  a  little  now,  so  as 
I  knows  you're  honest  people. 

DICK.  (Places  his  hand  inside  his  jumper  and 
produces  coin}  Here — take  this  shilling  and  get. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Oh,  thank  you,  Sir,  you're  a 
real  gent,  you  are,  a  real  gent  and  no  mistake.  I'm 
a  going.  (With  a  lear)  So  long,  dearies.  Hope 
you  enjoy  yourselves.  (Exit  Mrs.  Martin) 

DICK.  Damn  the  old  woman.  Does  she  get 
money  from  every  one  as  comes  here  with  you? 

FANNY.  Most  always;  but  let  me  tell  you,  I 
don't  bring  many  blokes  here.  I  ain't  regularly 
on  the  streets. 

DICK.  I  didn't  reckon  on  paying  more  than  you 
said.  I'll  take  the  bob  out  of  that. 

FANNY.  Now  don't  be  mean  now ;  a  fine  looking 
chap  like  you  oughtn't  to  be  stingy;  besides,  you 
ain't  so  hard  up  as  that,  are  you? 

DICK.  No,  I  ain't  hard  up.  I  got  plenty,  all 
right.  You're  a  pretty  enough  girl.  I'll  give  you 
what  I  said  I  would.  Here,  catch  hold.  (Taking 
money  from  a  pouch  which  is  inside  his  jumper 
and  giving  it  to  her) 

FANNY.  (Placing  money  in  top  of  her  stocking) 
Thanks;  I  knew  you  was  the  right  sort,  I  did. 
Just  the  bloke  I  was  a  looking  for. 


8o  THE  COSHER 

DICK.    You're  a  bit  of  all  right,  you  are. 
FANNY.    Think  so  ?    ( Taking  off  hat  and  shawl) 

DICK.     I  should  say  so.     Here,  give  us  a  kiss  to 
start  on. 

FANNY.    Wait  a  bit,  can't  you?  don't  be  in  such 
a  hurry.     (Letting  down  her  hair) 

DICK.     Buck  up,   I  can't  wait  much  longer. 

FANNY.      I   ain't   a   going   to   undress   in   front 
of  you.     I'll  put  the  light  out — see? 

DICK.    What? 

FANNY.    It's  just  as  good  in  the  dark,  ain't  it? 

DICK.      All    right.       (Fanny    blows    out    lamp. 
Stage  dark) 

FANNY.    I  shan't  be  long  now. 
DICK.     Where  are  you,  my  girl? 

FANNY.     Over  here;  keep  your  hair  on,  now; 
don't  be  in  such  a  hurry. 

DICK.     I  can't  find  you,  where  are  you? 

FANNY.     Here,  I  tells  you.     (Fanny  seizes  him 
and  pushes   him   back   towards  door  L.) 

DICK.    What  the  devil  are  you  doing?    What's 
your  little  game? 

(Enter  Jim) 

FANNY.     Cosh  him,  Jim,  cosh  him. 


THE  COSHER  81 

DICK.      (Shouting}      Help!     Help! 

(Jim  knocks  Dick  on  the  head  ivith  stick.  Dick 
falls  to  the  ground  with  his  face  forward) 

FANNY.  He's  down;  quiet  as  a  mouse.  Get  a 
light,  Jim.  (Jim  goes  up  stage  and  lights  lamp) 

(Enter  Mrs.  Martin) 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Is  it  all  over?  Have  you  put 
the  little  sailor  boy  to  sleep  ? 

FANNY.    Yes,  Jim  coshed  him  good. 
MRS.  MARTIN.    Where's  his  money? 

FANNY.  Turn  him  over.  He's  got  a  bag  round 
his  chest. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  (Advancing  to  body)  Show  a 
light,  can't  you? 

(Jim  comes  down,  holding  lamp,  but  is  too  over- 
come to  look  in  the  direction  of  the  body) 

MRS.  MARTIN.  (Searching  Dick)  Ha,  ha! 
Here  it  is.  (Pulling  out  bag  with  money  in  it  and 
holding  it  up) 

FANNY.    I  told  you  so. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  (Eagerly  counting  the  money) 
One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six — six  pound.  One, 
two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight — eight  bob. 
Six  pound  eight,  my  dear,  think  of  that.  Money  for 
you  and  money  for  Jim  and  money  for  me. 
(Laughs)  Ha,  ha! 


82  THE  COSHER 

FANNY.  Stow  it,  mother.  (Beside  the  body} 
He  ain't  breathing.  Blime  me,  I  believe  he's  dead. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Feel  his  heart,  dearie,  feel  his 
heart. 

FANNY.  It  ain't  moving.  He's  done  for,  he  is. 
He's  a  gone  one. 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Let's  have  a  look.  (Examining 
the  body}  Show  a  light,  can't  you,  Jim? 

(Jim  comes  nearer  with  the  light.  He  sees  the 
body  for  the  first  time,  and  stands  regarding  it, 
horror-struck) 

MRS.  MARTIN.  Yes,  he's  a  dead  'un,  right 
enough. 

JlM.  (Realizing  what  he  has  done)  God — God 
— It's  my  brother — my  brother  Dick,  and  I've  killed 
him. 

(Curtain) 


BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST 

A  Duologue 

1912 


CHARACTERS 
BASIL  NORTON 

BARBARA  WEST 

SCENE:  Room  in  Basil's  Chambers.  Door  L. 
Window  R.  Fireplace  C.  Table,  chairs,  etc.  Com- 
fortably furnished  in  bachelor  fashion.  Photographs 
on  mantelshelf. 


BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST 

(Basil  discovered  seated,  reading  a  letter.  He 
is  a  smart,  good-looking,  middle-aged  man  of  some- 
ichat  blase  appearance.  He  has  on  dressing-gown, 
and  is  smoking.  He  rises,  glances  at  clock  on  mantel- 
shelf and  compares  his  watch  with  it.  Stands  by 
the  mantelshelf  and  again  reads  the  letter,  evidently 
pleased  but  perplexed  at  the  contents.  Bell  heard 
off.  He  hastily  puts  pipe  down  and  changes  his 
dressing-gown  for  lounge  coat.  He  goes  to  door  L., 
opens  it  and  stands  watching  off  at  some  one  being 
shown  in  at  the  front  door;  then  speaks,  holding  the 
door  open) 

BASIL.     Will  you  please  come  in  here? 

(Enter  Barbara,  slowly  and  looking  hesitatingly 
at  him.  She  is  a  pretty  blonde  of  about  twenty) 

BARBARA.    You — are  Mr.  Norton,  are  you  not? 

BASIL.  Yes,  I'm  Basil  Norton,  at  your  service, 
my  dear  lady.  Won't  you  sit  down  ? 

BARBARA.  (Sits)  Thank  you.  (Basil  waits 
for  her  to  speak,  but  she  says  nothing) 

BASIL.  May  I  ask  if  you  are  (Referring  to  let- 
ter)—"W.  E."? 

85 


86       BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST 

BARBARA.     Yes,  I  am  the  writer  of  that  letter. 

BASIL.  You  do  me  a  great  honour  in  writing 
to  me. 

BARBARA.     Honour? 

BASIL.  It  has  given  me  an  additional  interest  in 
life.  A  letter  from  an  unknown  lady  adds  a  fillip  to 
a  jaded  imagination. 

BARBARA.  You  guessed,  then,  that  I  was  a 
woman  ? 

BASIL.  Dear  lady,  your  communication  breathes 
femininity  in  every  sentence.  (Reading  letter) 
"Will  you  pardon  the  liberty  I  am  taking?  I  intend 
calling  on  you  to-morrow  morning  at  eleven  o'clock, 
when  I  hope  you  will  be  in.  I  have  something  to 
discuss  with  you,  which  to  me  is  very  serious  and 
important.  Please  listen  to  me.  W.  B."  In 
answer  to  this  note,  may  I  say  that  it  is  now  eleven 
o'clock,  I  am  here  and  only  too  willing  to  listen 
to  anything  you  may  have  to  tell  me? 

BARBARA.     Thank  you. 

BASIL.  I  am  prepared  to  discuss  any  serious  and 
important  subject  you  care  to  select,  from  Botany 
to — Preparedness,  although  I  know  nothing  of  the 
former  and  the  latter  I  am  only  conversant  with 
through  the  headlines  of  my  daily  paper  (Sits}  — 
a  Republican  one. 

BARBARA.  I  hope  I  have  not  been  indiscreet  in 
coming  here. 


BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST       87 

BASIL.  Indiscreet!  You  have  made  this  day  one 
of  the  most  delightful  of  my  life.  (He  draws  his 
chair  nearer  to  Barbara} 

BARBARA.  You  must  think  it  strange  that  a  girl 
whom  you  have  never  spoken  to  before  should  visit 
you  in  this  manner. 

BASIL.  Strange?  Say  rather  a  romance  and 
romance  is  only  strange  when  we  see  it  in  cold  print. 

BARBARA.  Oh — but  my  visit  is  anything  but  a 
romance. 

BASIL.  To  me  it  is  quite  a  romance.  A  twen- 
tieth century  edition  of  "Beauty  and  the  Beast." 
I  am  the  ugly,  repulsive  beast  and  you  are  the 
radiant  beauty. 

BARBARA.  Please  do  not  pay  me  compliments.  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  very  seriously. 

BASIL.     I'm    all    attention,    my    dear    Miss — 

Miss (As  she   does   not  give   her   name,   he 

glances  at  the  letter  again}     My  dear  Miss  W.  B. 

BARBARA.  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  do  a  good 
action. 

BASIL.  A  good  action?  None  of  my  friends  or 
enemies  have  ever  yet  accused  me  of  being  capable 
of  such  a  thing. 

BARBARA.    We  are  all  capable  of  doing  good. 

BASIL.  But  so  few  of  us  want  to.  It  gives  one 
a  bad  name  to  be  labelled  as  the  man  who  is  trying 
to  do  good. 


88       BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST 

BARBARA.  I  want  to  ask  you  to  do  something 
that  will  bring  happiness  to  others. 

BASIL.  What  is  it — a  donation  to  a  charity?  I 
don't  believe  in  Charities;  they  help  to  make  poverty 
attractive  to  the  idle — but  when  Beauty  demands,  I 
am  powerless. 

BARBARA.  No,  no!  It  is  something  that  con- 
cerns me  nearer.  I  am  here — because — Oh,  it's  so 
hard  for  me  to  tell  you. 

BASIL.  Then  don't  try.  (He  rises  and  goes  down 
on  one  knee)  On  my  bended  knee  I  offer  thanks 
to  the  circumstances,  whatever  they  are,  that  brought 
you  to  the  lair  of  the  Beast. 

BARBARA.  Oh,  but  you  don't  understand.  I 
must  explain. 

BASIL.  Please  don't.  When  explanations  begin, 
confidences  cease. 

BARBARA.  What  I  am  going  to  ask  of  you  con- 
cerns another. 

BASIL.  Oh !  Then  this  meeting  is  not  a  delicious 
secret  between  us  two? 

BARBARA.  Indeed,  I  want  nobody  to  know  of 
my  calling  on  you. 

BASIL.  Nobody  shall.  (Bowing  to  her)  When 
Beauty  comes  to  the  Beast,  the  Beast  will  remain 
silent  to  the  outside  world  regarding  the  exquisite 
visitation  he  has  received. 

BARBARA.     Please  don't  make  fun  of  me. 


BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST       89 

BASIL.  Believe  me,  I'm  not.  Making  fun  is  a 
most  serious  business,  and  I  always  did  hate  being 
serious. 

BARBARA.  You  make  it  so  difficult  for  me  to 
approach  you. 

BASIL.  Let  me  approach  you,  then.  (He  brings 
his  chair  closer  to  hers)  May  I  ask  who  the  other 
is  of  whom  you  spoke? 

BARBARA.     He  is  some  one  very  dear  to  me. 

BASIL.  (With  a  slight  tone  of  disappointment} 
Yes? 

BARBARA.  Some  one  who  is  all  I  have  in  the 
world  to  care  for,  besides  my  mother. 

BASIL.  Lucky  mortal.  Is  it  indiscreet  to  ask  the 
name  of  this  favoured  being? 

BARBARA.    His  name  is  Norman  West. 

BASIL.  (Concealing  rather  a  bitter  laugh}  Young 
West!  You  love  him?  (Rises) 

BARBARA.  Yes,  and  it's  because  I  do,  that  I'm 
here  now. 

BASIL.  You  say  you  love  Norman  West  and  for 
this  reason  you  visit  me  here? 

BARBARA.     Yes. 

BASIL.  Then  the  Beast  has  reluctantly  to  con- 
fess to  the  Beauty — that  he  does  not  understand. 

BARBARA.  You  are  his  friend,  are  you  not? 
(Rising  and  going  to  him} 


90       BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST 

BASIL.  I  think  I've  smoked  a  sufficient  number 
of  his  cagarettes  to  be  called  so. 

BARBARA.    You  have  great  influence  over  him. 

BASIL.  I  don't  know  about  that.  I've  been  a 
trifle  useful  to  West. 

BARBARA.    You  think  you  have  helped  him? 

BASIL.  Well,  I've  helped  to  polish  him.  He 
was  quite  a  rough  diamond  at  one  time. 

BARBARA.  He  is  very  different  from  what  he 
was. 

BASIL.  Yes,  when  I  first  knew  him,  he  was  the 
model  Sunday  School  youth.  I've  shown  him  round 
a  bit — made  him  feel  his  feet.  I  think  I've  improved 
him  a  little. 

BARBARA.  (Slowly  crossing  to  chair  and  sitting} 
Improved  ? 

BASIL.  Yes,  an  innocent  lambkin  may  be  a  very 
picturesque  object  in  a  story  book,  but  in  real  life 
it's  a  positive  blot  on  the  landscape.  Young  West, 
when  I  first  met  him,  was  walking  through  the 
world  with  his  eyes  shut.  For  the  past  twelve 
months  I've  been  endeavouring  to  open  them,  and  I 
think  I've  been  fairly  successful.  I  first  had  to 
elevate  his  eyebrows — elevate  them  with  surprise — 
surprise  at  the  many  good  things  in  the  world  he 
had  not  noticed  before.  Then  he  was  able  to  peer 
at  what  the  parsons  called  the  pomps  and  vanities 
of  this  wicked  world,  and  now  that  his  eyes  are 


BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST       gi 

opening  wide,  he  is  beginning  to  realise  to  the  full 
the  beauty  of  all  the  things  he  has  missed. 

BARBARA.  I  wonder  if  it  is  you  or  your  talk 
that  is  wicked? 

BASIL.  I  beg  of  you  not  to  think  that  I'm  wicked 
— that  is  unless  you  have  a  preference  for  wicked 
men;  then  I'm  as  wicked  as  you  please. 

BARBARA.     I  don't  like  wicked  men. 

BASIL.  I  don't,  either.  A  man  who  is  wholly 
wicked  must  be  nearly  as  tedious  as  a  man  who  is 
wholly  good.  Thank  goodness,  the  majority  of  us 
seek  shelter  in  the  half-way  house. 

BARBARA.  Why  do  you  joke  about  such  serious 
things  ? 

BASIL.  Because  it's  a  far  better  policy  to  laugh 
at  serious  things  than  to  take  laughable  things 
seriously. 

BARBARA.  It's  not  nice  of  you  to  keep  making 
fun  of  me. 

BASIL.  (Going  to  her  and  sitting  on  footstool 
on  the  ground  by  her  chair)  Forgive  the  beast; 
he  is  penitent.  He  lies  at  your  foot.  Smile  at  him 
and,  Hey — Presto,  he  will  become  Prince  Charm- 
ing. 

BARBARA.    Please  forgive  what  I'm  going  to  say. 
BASIL.     Say  anything  you  please. 


92       BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST 

BARBARA.  (With  an  effort}  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  that  your  friendship  for  Norman  is  doing  him 
no  good. 

BASIL.  Which  means  that  you  don't  approve  of 
the  improvement  I  flattered  myself  I  had  made  in 
him. 

BARBARA.  How  could  I  approve?  He  is  quite 
a  different  boy.  His  nature  is  so  easily  influenced. 
I  don't  think  you're  really  a  bad  man,  but  Norman 
is  weak  and  easily  led.  You  don't  realise  the  harm 
you  are  doing  him. 

BASIL.  Harm?  Is  it  possible  that  the  small 
share  of  worldly  wisdom  I  have  instilled  in  Nor- 
man could  do  him  harm?  It  is  necessary  for  us  all 
to  know  the  world  in  which  we  live. 

BARBARA.  There  was  a  person  once  who  offered 
to  lay  all  of  the  world  at  the  feet  of  another.  He 
was  called  by  an  ugly  name. 

BASIL.  By  jove,  that's  one  to  you.  Tell  Nor- 
man that,  and  he'll  be  saying,  "Get  behind  me, 
Satan,"  when  next  we  meet. 

BARBARA.  (Hastily)  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that 
you  were — Oh,  indeed  I  didn't.  I'm  sure  you're 
much  better  than  he  was. 

BASIL.     (Dryly)    Thank  you. 

BARBARA.  (Rises)  I  understand  Norman.  He 
is  different  from  you.  If  he  lives  in  the  world 
like  you,  it  will  do  harm  to  him. 


BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST       93 

BASIL.  (Rising  and  following  her)  My  dear 
lady,  I 

BARBARA.  (Turning  and  pleading  to  him) 
Please  relax  the  influence  you  have  over  him.  You 
don't  know  what  it  means  to  those  near  to  him.  Be- 
fore he  met  you,  he  was  interested  in  his  future. 
He  worked  hard  for  his  examinations.  He  was 
happy  and  cheerful  and  a  comfort  to  those  at  home. 
Now  he  is  always  seeking  pleasure;  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  he  is  at  home,  he  is  cynical  and  dis- 
contented. He  is  an  only  son;  all  his  mother's 
thoughts  are  centred  in  him,  bur.  she  rarely  sees 
him  now.  He  is  forever  in  your  company. 

BASIL.  There  comes  a  day  when  the  bird  leaves 
its  nest. 

BARBARA.  He  even  tries  to  say  clever  things  like 
you.  It  isn't  a  good  sign  when  a  man  invents 
smart  phrases  to  condone  his  doings. 

BASIL.  I  appear  to  be  in  your  bad  books.  From 
what  you've  said,  I  shouldn't  be  very  much  sur- 
prised to  hear  that  you  disliked  me  somewhat. 

BARBARA.  Oh,  no,  I — it's  the  influence  you  have 
over  Norman  that  I  dislike. 

BASIL.  Beauty  did  not  dislike  the  Beast — only 
his  skin.  You  do  not  dislike  me,  but  the  influence 
that  you  credit  me  with  having. 

BARBARA.  Yes.  Please  do  not  be  angry  because 
I  tell  you  this.  I  do  it  for  Norman's  sake. 


94       BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST 

BASIL.  Angry?  Angry,  because  a  girl  whom 
I  can  see  to  be  good  and  pure  disapproves  of  my 
ways?  (Seriously)  Let  me  tell  you  something. 
In  my  heart  of  hearts  I  disapprove  of  my  own  ways. 
I  think  I  should  be  happier  were  I  less  a  man  of  the 
world.  But  I've  been  unfortunate,  I've  had  nobody 
to  influence  me.  I  have  drifted  and  drifted  until  I 
have  become  a — veritable — Beast. 

BARBARA.  Don't  say  that.  No  doubt  your  ways 
suit  you  well  enough,  but  they  are  not  suited  to 
Norman. 

BASIL.  You  wish  me  to  cease  to  be  his  friend? 
(Facing  her) 

BARBARA.  I  dare  not  ask  you  that.  I  only  ask 
you  not  to  take  him  away  from  others,  from  his 
home,  from  his  studies. 

BASIL.  Well,  dear  lady,  for  your  sake,  I  prom- 
ise only  to  see  Norman  West  on  rare  occasions,  and 
on  those  rare  occasions  not  to  exert  unduly  the  in- 
fluence you  say  I  have  over  him. 

BARBARA.  ( Taking  his  hand  and  looking  grate- 
fully at  him}  How  kind  of  you !  Thank  you,  thank 
you. 

BASIL.  It  seems  that,  like  Norman,  I  too  can 
be  easily  influenced,  although  until  to-day  I  did  not 
know  it.  You  see  how  soon  I  succumbed.  You 
have  conquered. 

BARBARA.  Not  I,  but  your  better  nature  won 
the  victory. 


BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST       95 

BASIL.  (Still  holding  her  hand)  You  love  Nor- 
man. Your  love  must  be  a  glorious  thing.  It  is 
far  better  for  him  to  revel  in  that  than  in  the  many 
frothy  pleasures  to  which  I  could  introduce  him. 
The  only  thing  I  ask  is,  that  when  the  day  arrives 
for  him  to  place  a  gold  band  on  this  little  finger,  you 
will  not  altogether  forget  the  Beast  whose  den  you 
invaded  for  the  sake  of  your  sweetheart.  (Barbara 
laughs)  I'm  trying  to  be  serious  now.  Don't 
laugh.  This  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I've 
been  really  serious. 

BARBARA.  (Suppressing  her  laughter)  It's  so 
funny.  Norman  is  not  going  to  marry  me. 

BASIL.    You  mean  you're  giving  him  up? 
BARBARA.    Giving  him  up?    No. 

BASIL.  You're  not  going  to  marry  him  and  you're 
not  giving  him  up.  You  don't  mean  to  say  he's 
giving  you  up  ?  The  fool ! 

BARBARA.    No,  No! 

BASIL.  You  have  the  better  of  me  again.  I  don't 
understand. 

BARBARA.  Norman  couldn't  marry  me  if  he 
wanted  to.  You  see,  he's  my  brother. 

BASIL.    Your  brother? 
BARBARA.     Yes. 

BASIL.  And  all  the  time  I've  been  thinking 
that 


96       BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST 

BARBARA.  Hasn't  he  spoken  to  you  of  his  sister 
Barbara? 

BASIL.  He  certainly  has,  but  your  initials  in 
this  letter  are  W.  B. 

BARBARA.  Barbara  West,  but  with  the  Surname 
and  Christian  name  reversed. 

BASIL.  (Slowly)  Barbara — West — and  I 
thought  that  you  were  the  future  Mrs.  Norman 
West.  (Laughs)  I'm  completely  routed,  but  I'm 
glad.  Yes,  glad,  because  now  I  shall  be  able  to  ask 
you  something  I  couldn't  ask  before 

BARBARA.     You  want  to  ask  me  something? 

BASIL.  Yes,  it's  my  turn  now,  but  it's  such  an 
important  question  that  I  think  I  had  better  wait 
until  you  have  a  better  opinion  of  me.  Instead  of 
influencing  others,  I  am  going  to  be  influenced  my- 
self. You'll  use  that  influence,  won't  you?  It 
will  be  all  for  my  good. 

BARBARA.     I  am  sure  my  influence  is  small. 

BASIL.  Believe  me,  it  is  great.  Use  it  and  you 
will  find  that,  like  Norman,  I  shall  become  a  changed 
man,  with  this  difference — my  change  will  make 
me  a  better  man. 

BARBARA.     You  really  mean  this? 

BASIL.  I  do.  Before  long  you  will  have  a  dif- 
ferent opinion  of  me.  Tell  me,  do  you  think  I'm 
very,  very  bad  now? 


BEAUTY  VERSUS  THE  BEAST      97 

BARBARA.  I  think  that,  like  many  another  Beast, 
your  bark  is  worse  than  your  bite. 

BASIL.     Dare  I  venture  to  ask  my  question? 
BARBARA.     Please  don't — that  is — not  now. 

BASIL.  In  six  months'  time,  then.  When  I  have 
proved  to  you  that 

BARBARA.  I — I — must  be  going.  They  will  miss 
me  at  home.  (Going  to  door  and  extending  her 
hand]  Good-bye.  ( They  shake  hands}  Thank 
you  for  your  promise,  but  you'll  come  and  see  Nor- 
man sometimes? 

BASIL.     (Eagerly}     And  you,  too? 

BARBARA.  Well,  I  shall  always  be  there.  Good- 
bye. 

(She  exits  L.  He  looks  after  her  for  a  moment, 
then  comes  down.  He  takes  out  her  letter,  reads 
it  again,  kisses  it  and  places  it  in  pocket-book,  which 
he  puts  gently  in  his  pocket} 

(  Curtain  } 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

A  Comedy  in  One  Act 

1913 


CHARACTERS 

GODFREY  TARLETON 
JACK  WORTH 
AGNES  BRUNTON 

f  SCENE:  The  Bath  High  Road.  It  is  ,..„. 
o'clock  of  an  evening  in  October.  On  the  R.  is  a 
signpost  which  reads  "5  Miles  to  Devizes." 


nine 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

(The  curtain  rises  on  a  dark  stage,  the  scene  be- 
ing barely  discernible.  The  noise  of  an  auto  ap- 
proaching is  heard  L.,  then  suddenly  ceases.  The 
lamps  from  the  auto  light  up  the  L.  of  the  stage, 
but  the  R.  is  in  comparative  darkness) 

AGNES.  (Speaking  off)  What  is  the  matter? 
Why  have  you  stopped  the  car? 

GODFREY.  (Speaking  off)  I  haven't  stopped  it. 
It  stopped  itself. 

AGNES.     (Off)     What's  the  matter  with  it? 
GODFREY.     (Off)     I  don't  know. 

AGNES.  (Off)  I'm  going  to  get  out.  Help  me 
down. 

GODFREY.     (Off)     Yes,  dear. 

(  They  are  heard  to  descend  from  the  car.  Enter 
Agnes,  followed  by  Godfrey,  L.) 

AGNES.  I  thought  you  knew  how  to  drive  a 
car. 

GODFREY.    So  I  do,  darling. 

AGNES.    Then  why  does  it  stop  dead?    What  is 
the  matter  with  it?    Why  doesn't  it  go  on? 
101 


102  A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

GODFREY.  I  say,  I'm  not  to  blame,  you  know, 
for  the  vagaries  of  an  automobile. 

AGNES.  You  could  have  seen  that  everything  was 
all  right  before  we  set  out. 

GODFREY.  They  are  supposed  to  do  that  at  the 
garage. 

AGNES.  On  an  occasion  like  this,  you  should  have 
done  it  yourself. 

GODFREY.    Yes,  dear,  but  I  don't  know  how. 

AGNES.  You  don't  know  how?  You  said  just 
now  that  you  knew  how  to  drive  a  car. 

GODFREY.  Yes,  but  I  don't  know  anything  about 
overhauling.  It  wasn't  part  of  the  course. 

AGNES.   The  course? 

GODFREY.  Yes,  I  had  a  ten-guinea  course  at  a 
motoring  school — twelve  lessons  in  all. 

AGNES.    Where  are  we? 
GODFREY.    I  don't  know,  dear. 
AGNES.    What  are  we  going  to  do? 
GODFREY.     I  don't  know,  darling. 

AGNES.  What  a  resourceful  man  you  are.  For 
goodness'  sake,  do  something.  We  can't  stay  here 
all  night. 

GODFREY.    No,  of  course  not,  darling. 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP  103 

AGNES.     And  don't  keep  calling  me  darling. 
GODFREY.    Not  if  you  don't  wish  it. 

AGNES.  And  don't  stand  there  doing  nothing. 
Get  us  out  of  this  fix.  Oh,  if  only  my  husband  were 
here,  he  would  know  what  to  do. 

GODFREY.     I  call  that  unkind,  Agnes. 
AGNES.      What? 

GODFREY.  To  speak  so  of  your  husband  on  such 
a  momentous  occasion  as  this.  Remember  we  are 
eloping. 

AGNES.  Am  I  likely  to  forget  it  when  the  car 
breaks  down  at  midnight  and  we  are  miles  from 
anywhere  ? 

GODFREY.  It  isn't  midnight.  It  hasn't  gone  ten 
yet. 

AGNES.  How  perverse  you  are!  If  you  really 
love  me  as  you  say  you  do,  you  wouldn't  contradict 
me. 

GODFREY.    I  beg  your  pardon,  dearest. 
AGNES.    Can't  we  find  out  where  we  are  ? 

GODFREY.  We'll  ask  the  first  person  who  passes 
how  far  we  are  from  a  hotel. 

AGNES.  Supposing  nobody  passes  all  night — 
what  are  we  going  to  do  then?  Stay  here? 

GODFREY.    I'll  walk  on  and  see  if  I  can  find  an 


io4  A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

inn  or  a  cottage. 

AGNES.  What!  And  leave  me  all  alone?  How 
can  you  suggest  such  a  thing,  Godfrey?  You  know 
my  nerves  would  never  stand  it. 

GODFREY.     Let  us  go  together. 

AGNES.  I  couldn't  walk  a  step.  I'm  too  ex- 
hausted. Do  think  of  something  sensible. 

GODFREY.     Yes,  dear. 
AGNES.    Couldn't  you  shout  out  for  help? 
GODFREY.      There  may  be  nobody  to  hear. 
AGNES.    Keep  it  up  till  somebody  does. 

GODFREY.  Well,  I'll  try.  Help!  (He  gives 
vent  to  a  small  shrill  shout} 

AGNES.    That's  not  nearly  loud  enough. 
GODFREY.      (Shouting  again}     Help! 
AGNES.     Louder ! 

GODFREY.  (With  an  effort}  Help!  Help!! 
Help!!!  (At  the  last  shout  his  voice  cracks} 

AGNES.  That's  enough  for  the  present.  What 
is  that  over  there?  (Pointing  R.} 

GODFREY.    It  is  something  white. 
AGNES.     Is  it  alive? 
GODFREY.     No,  no! 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP  105 

AGNES.  (Shrinking  back  behind  Godfrey}  It 
is  pointing  at  us.  It  knows  that  I  have  left  my  hus- 
band. It  is  denouncing  me.  Oh,  Oh,  why  did  I 
do  it?  Why  did  I  do  it? 

GODFREY.  (Peering  intently  at  the  object}  It's 
all  right.  There  is  no  need  to  be  frightened.  It 
is  only  a  signpost. 

AGNES.    Only  a  signpost? 

GODFREY.    That's  all. 

AGNES.    Then  we  can  find  out  where  we  are. 

GODFREY.  By  Jove!  So  we  can.  (They  ad- 
vance towards  the  signpost  R.) 

AGNES.    Let's  see  what  it  says. 

GODFREY.     I  wish  we  could  see. — What  does  it 

say?     "Five  miles  to — to "     I  know,  I'll  strike 

a  match,  then  we  shall  be  able  to  see.  (He  fumbles 
fi'ith  matches,  eventually  strikes  one,  burning  his 
finger  at  the  same  time.  He  utters  an  exclamation 
and  lets  the  box  of  matches  fall} 

AGNES.    What's  the  matter? 

GODFREY.  I've  burnt  my  fingers.  (Searching  on 
ground  for  matches} 

AGNES.  How  clumsy  you  are!  Horace  never 
burns  his  fingers  when  he  lights  a  match. 

GODFREY.  It's  most  unfair  to  compare  me  with 
\  our  husband  under  the  circumstances.  He  doesn't 


io6  A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

elope  with  married  women — he  doesn't 

AGNES.  Yes,  there  are  quite  a  number  of  things 
he  doesn't  do.  He  has  his  business  to  look  after; 
that  occupies  all  his  time. 

GODFREY.     Poor  prosaic  soul. 

AGNES.  Godfrey,  how  dare  you  speak  slightingly 
of  him! 

GODFREY.  I  beg  your  pardon,  dearest. 
AGNES.    Haven't  you  found  the  matches  yet? 
GODFREY.    No. 

AGNES.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  look  too. 
(They  both  search  on  the  ground  for  the  matches) 

GODFREY.  Where  are  they?  They  must  be 
somewhere. 

AGNES.     And  this  is  finding  my  affinity. 

GODFREY.  I've  got  them.  Now  we  shall  be  able 
to  read  the  sign.  (He  lights  match  and  holds  it 
up,  but  the  sign  is  too  high  for  them  to  read) 

AGNES.     Hold  the  match  higher. 

GODFREY.  (Standing  on  tip-toe)  That's  as 
high  as  I  can. 

AGNES.  What  a  nuisance — we  can't  read  it. 
You'll  have  to  climb  up  the  post. 

GODFREY.  Yes,  dear,  I'll  try  if  you  wish  it,  but 
I 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP  107 

AGNES.  You  must.  How  else  are  we  to  find  out 
where  we  are? 

GODFREY.      (Triumphantly')      I've  got  it. 

AGNES.     What? 

GODFREY.    It's  the  very  thing. 

AGNES.   What's  the  very  thing? 

GODFREY.     Why,  one  of  the  motor  lamps. 

AGNES.  Of  course.  How  stupid  you  are.  Why 
didn't  you  think  of  it  before? 

GODFREY.  I'll  fetch  one  of  them.  We'll  soon 
know  what  it  says  up  there.  (Exits  quickly  L.) 

AGNES.     (Calling  after  him)     Be  quick. 

(In  moving,  Agnes  stumbles  over  Jack  Worth, 
who  is  asleep  near  the  signpost.  He  utters  a  drowsy 
exclamation  ) 

AGNES.     (Running  away)     Oh!  Oh!  Godfrey! 

GODFREY.  (Off  stage)  Yes,  dear,  what  is  it? 
(Enters  L.  with  motor  lamp) 

AGNES.  There's  something  alive  over  there.  It 
came  near  me  and  clutched  hold  of  me. 

GODFREY.    Where  is  it? 
AGNES.      (Pointing)     There. 

GODFREY.  (Speaking  in  Jack's  direction)  How 
dare  you  molest  this  lady? 


io8  A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

(Godfrey  turns  the  lamp  towards  Jack,  who  is 
seen  awakening  from  sleep.  Jack  Worth  is  dressed 
in  old  clothes  and  has  an  unkempt  beard,  yet  a 
certain  air  of  refinement  and  some  degree  of  cleanli- 
ness proclaim  him  to  be  other  than  the  ordinary 
tramp  ) 

AGNES.  It's  one  of  those  horrid  tramps.  What 
a  start  he  gave  me. 

(Jack  rises  and  faces  Godfrey  and  Agnes) 

JACK.  Excuse  me,  do  you  mind  turning  that  lamp 
in  another  direction?  The  light  is  so  powerful 
it  is  hurting  my  eyes. 

GODFREY.     Cheek!      (Steps  back) 

JACK.    Thank  you.    I  am  exceedingly  obliged. 

GODFREY.  What  do  you  mean  by  frightening  this 
lady? 

JACK.  If  I  have  frightened  her,  I  humbly  beg 
her  pardon — such  was  not  my  intention,  Mr.  Tarle- 
ton. 

GODFREY.    You  know  me? 

JACK.     I  recognised  you  the  moment  you  spoke. 

GODFREY.  Who  are  you?  You  are  not  what  you 
seem;  you  are  no  common  tramp. 

JACK.  Indeed  I  am,  inasmuch  as  at  present  I 
have  no  visible  means  of  sustenance. 

GODFREY.    I  know  your  voice.    Who  are  you? 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP  109 

JACK.     I  was  once  a  friend  of  yours. 

GODFREY.  A  friend  of  mine.  (He  turns  the  lamp 
in  his  direction,  takes  a  good  look  at  him,  then 
recognises  him}  Mad  Jack! 

JACK.     Jack  Worth,  at  your  service.      (Bows) 
(Godfrey  holds  the  lamp  nearer  to  him) 

JACK.  Please  remember,  there  are  few  things  I 
cannot  face  but  that  lamp  is  one  of  them.  Let 
me  place  it  down  for  you. 

(Jack  takes  the  lamp  from  Godfrey  and  places 
it  on  one  of  the  supports  of  the  signpost  in  such  a 
position  that  it,  with  the  light  off  L.,  now  fully 
illumines  the  stage. 

AGNES.  (To  Godfrey)  You  know  him,  God- 
frey? 

GODFREY.    Yes,  there's  no  need  to  be  afraid. 
AGNES.    I'm  not. 

JACK.  (Returning  to  them)  This  is  indeed  a 
pleasure,  meeting  you  again,  Godfrey,  even  though 
you  did  snatch  me  somewhat  rudely  from  Dream- 
land. 

GODFREY.  What  are  you  doing  here,  Jack,  and 
in  that  rig-out? 

JACK.  Before  I  give  any  details  of  my  biography, 
won't  you  introduce  me  to  your  wife? 

GODFREY.  Er — yes.  My  dear,  this  is  Mr.  Worth, 


i  io  A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

an  old  college  chum  of  mine. 

JACK.  (Bowing)  Delighted  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance. 

AGNES.    Yes,  but  I'm  not  his  wife. 
GODFREY.    Agnes ! 
JACK.     Please  pardon  my  mistake. 
AGNES.    I  am  eloping  with  him,  though. 

GODFREY.  Agnes,  don't  be  so  indiscreet.  What 
will  Mr.  Worth  think? 

AGNES.  Mr.  Worth  will  understand.  He  is  a 
man  of  the  world,  despite  his  appearance. 

GODFREY.  (Changing  the  conversation  hur- 
riedly) Yes,  why  this  appearance? 

JACK.  It's  very  easy  to  explain.  I  am  gifted 
with  expensive  tastes, — at  any  rate,  moderately  ex- 
pensive tastes. 

GODFREY.  Is  that  why  you  sleep  on  the  high  road 
and  wear  those  clothes  ? 

JACK.     Precisely. 

GODFREY.    You  always  were  a  puzzle,  Jack. 

JACK.  It's  simple  enough.  I  have  an  annual 
income  of  £800,  the  capital  of  which  is  entailed. 
This  amount  is  not  nearly  sufficient  to  supply  my 
wants  all  the  year  round.  It  lasts  me,  as  a  rule, 
some  four  or  five  months,  then  for  the  remainder 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP  in 

of  the  year  I  live  on  nothing. 

GODFREY.     Nothing — I  don't  see  how  you  can. 

JACK.  That  is  figuratively  speaking,  nothing. 
I  become  a  tramp,  a  knight  of  the  road,  and  I  exist 
in  much  the  same  fashion  as  the  gentlemen  of  that 
fraternity  do. 

AGNES.  Why  don't  you  allow  your  income  to 
cover  the  whole  of  the  year?  Many  people  live  well 
on  less. 

JACK.  At  college  I  was  given  the  sobriquet  of 
"Mad  Jack."  Why,  I  don't  know,  unless  it  was 
that  I  had  my  own  reasons  for  doing  things.  My 
reason  for  regulating  my  finances  so,  is  that  I  can 
be  happy  on  plenty  and  I  can  be  happy  on  nothing, 
but  never,  never  on  a  little.  My  present  arrange- 
ment allows  me  to  be  happy  all  the  year  round.  If 
I  eked  my  money  out  to  last  the  whole  twelve 
months,  I  should  be  miserable  for  exactly  the  same 
period. 

GODFREY.    Couldn't  you  do  work  of  some  kind? 

JACK.  I  doubt  it,  and  why  should  I  try?  I'm 
quite  contented  with  things  as  they  are. 

AGNES.  But  you  can't  enjoy  going  about  the 
country  like  this. 

JACK.     Certainly  I  can. 

AGNES.     How  strange! 

JACK.    Not  at  all.    I  enjoy  a  freedom  which  has 


ii2  A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

a  charm  of  its  own.  Then,  too,  the  contrast  between 
this  and  a  life  of  plenty  gives  light  and  shade  to 
my  life.  Mine  is  not  the  ordinary  drab  existence 
of  a  man  with  expensive  habits  living  on  <£8oo  a 
year  at  so  much  per  month. 

AGNES.  What  a  philosopher  you  are,  Mr. 
Worth. 

JACK.    Every  one  who  thinks  is  a  philosopher. 

AGNES.  I  think  a  great  deal,  but  I  don't  get  the 
same  amount  of  happiness  from  my  surroundings  as 
you  do. 

JACK.  Possibly  you  don't  aim  at  happiness.  It 
is  my  direct  target,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
I  am  called  "Mad  Jack." 

AGNES.  What  other  aim  could  I  have  but  hap- 
piness? 

JACK.    Perhaps — romance. 
AGNES.    Romance? 

JACK.  Yes,  romance — an  artificial  creation  by 
man. 

AGNES.    But  romance  is  beautiful. 

JACK.     So  are  artificial  creations — sometimes. 

AGNES.  What  makes  you  say  that  I  aim  at  ro- 
mance ? 

JACK.  The  night  air,  the  Bath  Road,  the  motor 
car,  and  the  presence  of  Godfrey  Tarleton. 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP  113 

GODFREY.  Look  here,  Jack,  you're  talking  a  lot 
of  rot,  the  same  as  you  always  did.  Can  you  tell 
us  where  we  are? 

JACK.  Yes,  it's  five  miles  to  Devizes  and  twenty- 
five  to  Bath. 

GODFREY.  Thanks.  If  we  can  get  to  Devizes, 
we'll  stay  there  the  night. 

JACK.     Why  the  doubt? 

GODFREY.  There's  something  the  matter  with 
the  car.  It  stopped  dead  a  short  time  ago.  Per- 
haps it's  all  right  now.  I'll  have  a  go  and  see  if 
I  can  start  the  thing.  (Crosses  to  entrance  L.) 

AGNES.    At  last  you're  going  to  do  something. 

GODFREY.  I'll  see  what  I  can  do,  but  I'm  not 
a  beastly  mechanic,  you  know.  (Exits  L.) 

AGNES.  The  car  breaking  down  has  spoilt  every- 
thing. 

JACK.  Not  for  me;  but  for  the  accident,  I 
shouldn't  have  had  the  honour  of  your  acquaintance. 

AGNES.  It  has  been  very  interesting  to  meet  a 
man  with  your  original  views,  Mr.  Worth,  still,  I 
am  beginning  to  wish  I  hadn't  come. 

JACK.     Then  there  would  have  been  no 

AGNES.    No  elopement. 
JACK.   And  no  romance. 


ii4  A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

AGNES.  It  does  not  seem  nearly  so  romantic  now 
as  when  it  was  being  planned. 

JACK.  Romance  and  the  present  rarely  coincide. 
In  the  future,  maybe  you  will  look  back  on  this  as 
the  most  eventful  day  of  your  life.  It  will  either 
be  a  day  of  regrets  or  a  day  of  sweet  romance, 
according  to  how  your  marriage  turns  out. 

AGNES.    Oh,  but  I  am  already  married. 

JACK.  Then  I'll  say  no  more.  I  appear  to  be 
treading  on  dangerous  ground. 

AGNES.  Oh,  no;  Godfrey  and  I  said  we  would 
defy  the  world.  Naturally,  after  my  husband  has 
secured  his  divorce,  we  are  to  be  married. 

JACK.   You  think  he  will  apply  for  a  divorce? 
AGNES.   It  will  be  very  mean  of  him  if  he  doesn't. 

JACK.  You  are,  of  course,  very  much  in  love 
with  Godfrey? 

AGNES.  I  suppose  so,  otherwise  I  wouldn't  have 
run  away  with  him. 

JACK.    And  he  is  in  love  with  you  ? 

AGNES.    He  says  so. 

JACK.    Do  you  think  so  yourself? 

AGNES.    Well,  he  is  very  attentive  to  me. 

JACK.    More  so  than  your  husband  ? 

AGNES.    More  than  my  husband  is  now,  but  not 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP  115 

more  than  he  was  before  we  were  married. 

JACK.  And  you  think  Godfrey's  attentions  will 
continue  after  you  have  been  divorced  and  then 
married  to  him  ? 

AGNES.  I  hope  so.  You  see,  we  understand  one 
another  so  well. 

JACK.  Umph — Do  you  mind  my  asking  these 
questions  ? 

AGNES,  I  shouldn't  answer  them  if  I  did.  Be- 
sides, I  am  not  quite  sure  whether  I  have  done  a 
wise  thing.  I  feel  you  can  advise  me. 

JACK.  I  will  do  all  in  my  power  to  save  you 
and  Godfrey  from  making  the  same  mistake  I  once 
made  in  the  days  when  I  did  not  boast  of  being 
happy.  Tell  me,  isn't  your  husband  good  to  you? 

AGNES.  Oh,  yes,  in  his  way;  but  I  see  so  little 
of  him.  His  business  occupies  so  much  of  his  time. 
Why,  this  morning  he  went  to  Liverpool,  and  is 
to  be  away  for  two  or  three  days. 

JACK.  Leaving  his  wife  to  the  mercy  of  sympa- 
thetic strangers..  Weren't  you  happy  at  home? 

AGNES.  In  a  sense,  yes,  but  there  was  something 
lacking. 

JACK.    Romance? 

AGNES.    Yes. 

JACK.    And  so  you  have  set  out  in  pursuit  of  it? 


ii6  A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

AGNES.   Yes. 

JACK.  You  are  chasing  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  dear 
lady. 

AGNES.    But  I  must  find  it  somewhere. 

JACK.  Then  find  it  in  your  home.  Be  content, 
be  happy.  You  must  dispense  with  romance  in 
order  to  find  romance. 

AGNES.    If  I  could  only  think  so! 

JACK.    Your  husband  loves  you,  doesn't  he? 

AGNES.    Oh,  yes. 

JACK.  Is  Godfrey's  love  so  much  more  worthy 
that  you  give  up  your  husband's  for  it? 

AGNES.    No. 

JACK.     Then  why  do  it? 

AGNES.  You  see,  my  husband  loves  me,  but  does 
not  tell  me  so;  now,  Godfrey  is  always  telling  me 
he  loves  me. 

JACK.  Let  your  husband's  actions  tell  you.  He 
is  working  hard  making  money;  no  doubt  he  lavishes 
a  deal  of  it  on  you. 

AGNES.  Yes,  I  have  everything  I  want  that  money 
can  buy. 

JACK.  Then  don't  leave  the  substance  for  the 
shadow;  let  your  romance  be  practical,  not  chimeri- 
cal. 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP  117 

AGNES.     It's  too  late  now. 

JACK.  Why  is  it?  You  can  go  back  and  this 
little  escapade  need  only  be  known  to  us  three. 
Say  nothing  yourself,  rest  assured  that  I  will  say 
nothing,  and  for  the  sake  of  his  own  dignity,  God- 
frey will  do  the  same. 

AGNES.    If  I  went  back,  how  could  I  manage  it? 
JACK.    Let  me  take  you. 

AGNES.  How?  (Noise  heard  off  of  Godfrey 
experimenting  on  car) 

JACK.     In  the  car. 
AGNES.    It's  broken. 
JACK.     It  can  be  repaired. 
AGNES.    Yes,  but 

JACK.  If  he  hasn't  done  it,  I'll  see  what  I  can 
do.  I  know  something  of  motors,  and  should  be 
able  to  put  any  ordinary  accident  to  rights. 

AGNES.    What  am  I  to  say  to  Godfrey? 

JACK.  Leave  him  to  me.  I'll  arrange  matters 
somehow. 

AGNES.   What  shall  I  do?    What  shall  I  do? 

(Enter  Godfrey  L.  He  has  taken  his  coat  off 
and  has  his  shirt  sleeves  rolled  up) 

GODFREY.  I've  tightened  up  a  lot  of  nuts  and 
things  and  experimented  all  ways  with  the  car,  but 


n8  A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

it  still  won't  go. 

JACK.     Perhaps  I  can  discover  what's  wrong. 
GODFREY.     Do  you  know  anything  about  autos? 
JACK.     A  little. 

GODFREY.  I  wish  you'd  see  what  you  can  do, 
then.  It's  a  mystery  to  me  what's  the  matter. 

JACK.    Well,  I'll  do  my  best.     (Exit  L.) 

AGNES.  Godfrey,  your  friend  and  I  have  had 
a  long  talk. 

GODFREY.    He's  a  weird  creature,  isn't  he? 
AGNES.     He  certainly  has  ideas. 

GODFREY.  But  he's  mad,  you  know.  He  earned 
that  name  at  college  and  it's  stuck  to  him  ever  since. 
He's  lived  a  wild  kind  of  life,  too. 

AGNES.     Yes. 

GODFREY.  He  was  mixed  up  in  a  big  scandal — 
some  woman  or  other. 

AGNES.    What  was  the  scandal? 

GODFREY.  (Contemptuously}  She  was  a  mar- 
ried woman  and  he  ran  away  with  her. 

AGNES.     Oh ! 

GODFREY.  (Realising  what  he  has  said}  Of 
course,  it  was  a  very  different  affair  from  ours — 
very  different. 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP  119 

AGNES.  Now  I  know  why  he  spoke  to  me  as 
he  did. 

GODFREY.    What  has  he  been  saying  to  you? 

AGNES.  Nothing — a  little  advice,  that's  all.  Be- 
cause you  elope  with  me,  I  suppose  in  the  future  your 
friends  will  know  you  as  "Mad  Godfrey." 

GODFREY.     Agnes ! 

(Enter  Jack  Worth  L.  He  is  carrying  Godfrey's 
coat) 

JACK.    I  think  it's  all  right  now. 
GODFREY.  You've  mended  the  car? 
JACK.    Yes. 
GODFREY.    What  was  the  matter? 

JACK.  The  wire  from  the  magneto  was  loose  at 
the  coil,  so  I  just  tightened  it. 

GODFREY.  I  remember  they  told  me  something 
about  the  magneto  at  the  motoring  school.  (Ar- 
ranging his  shirt  sleeves) 

AGNES.   The  car  is  ready  now,  then? 

JACK.  Yes.  (Jack,  unseen  by  Godfrey,  indi- 
cates to  Agnes  that  she  is  to  enter  the  car) 

AGNES.  (Crossing)  I  think  I'll  get  in.  (Exits 
L.) 

JACK.  (Crossing)  I'll  bring  the  lamp  along. 
(Hides  Godfrey's  coat  behind  the  signpost  and 


120  A  MOTOR  MISHAP 

picks  up  motor  lamp} 

GODFREY.  Thanks,  old  man,  for  your  help; 
you've  proved  a  friend  in  need. 

JACK.      (With   meaning}      I   have. 
GODFREY.    Can't  I  do  something  for  you? 

JACK.  No,  nothing,  just  leave  things  to  take  care 
of  themselves.  (Casually}  Oh — I've  left  your  coat 
over  there. 

GODFREY.     (Going  R.)     Over  here? 

JACK.    Yes. 

GODFREY.    I  can't  see  it. 

JACK.  It's  there  somewhere.  (Exits  quickly  L. 
with  lamp.) 

GODFREY.  I  say,  Jack,  I  can't  find  it,  it's  so 
confoundedly  dark.  Where  the  devil  is  it?  Show 
a  light,  will  you?  Ah,  I've  got  it.  (He  picks  up 
coat  and  is  putting  it  on  when  noise  of  auto  starting 
is  heard  off  L.) 

GODFREY.     Hullo  there,  wait  for  me. 

AGNES.  (Off)  I'm  very  sorry,  Godfrey,  but 
we  don't  intend  to. 

GODFREY.    What  do  you  mean? 

( The  lights  from  the  motor  lamps  off  L.  move, 
indicating  that  the  car  is  reversing  its  direction) 

GODFREY.     I  say,  what  are  you  turning  round 


A  MOTOR  MISHAP  121 

for?    Where  are  you  going? 

AGNES.  (Off)  Home.  Mr  Worth  is  taking 
me. 

GODFREY.     But  you  can't. 
AGNES.     (Off)     I  can. 
GODFREY.     Yes,  but 

AGNES.  (Off)  No  time  to  argue.  Good-bye, 
Godfrey. 

GODFREY.    What  am  I  to  do? 

AGNES.  (Off)  Devizes  is  only  five  miles  off. 
(The  auto  is  heard  receding) 

GODFREY.     Well,"  I'm (Shouting    after 

them)     I  say,  Worth,  where's  the  nearest  place  I  can 
get  a  drink? 

JACK.  (A  considerable  way  off,  shouting  back) 
There's  a  Public  House  about  two  miles  down  the 
road.  Look  sharp.  It  closes  at  eleven.  So  long. 

(Godfrey  stands  looking  off  in  the  direction  they 
have  gone.  The  auto  is  heard  disappearing) 

GODFREY.     Damn!    DAMN!!  DAMN!!! 

(He  takes  out  his  watch,  lights  a  match  to  see 

the  time,  then   replaces  the  watch,  buttons  up  his 

coat  and  steps  out  briskly  in   the  direction   of  the 
Public  House  R.) 

( Curtain  ) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


FormL9-20M-9,'61(C3106s4)444 


THE  LIBKAKT 

TJHIVERSITY  OF  CAUFOEIM 
LOS  ANGELAS  x- 


A    000  559  792    7 


PR 
6025 
^7t 


